sunan mali | 9

Some can't stand it, the scent of burning flesh. It has a way of working up into everything, even years later, you still remember the way it smelled when your mom finally lost it.

'Word of Goodness'

That's what your name means. Your fingers run over the page in your mom's diary. It's an odd thing to name a kid, at least that's what you've always thought. Maybe it's because your hair falls flat and you hide behind your bangs whenever you can. Maybe it's because she thought you'd be a knight in shining armour but then she got you instead.

It's not that you were a disappointment, it's just that you've always looked so much like him. Your father shines through you in the curvature of your jaw and the way your eyes are the same colour. He held your hand up high once and pressed it flat to his palm. "We're the same," he said and that always felt like a curse to you. He'd never been a role model, not to you and not to Kusa, your older brother.

To everyone but his family, your father is a hero. Mali Metalworks employs hundreds of people across the district and they can all feed their families, all thanks to him. They can have him, you think.

The hitting started before you can remember but he never touched you at first, it was always Kusa or mom. Sometimes you wouldn't see it, sometimes you'd get home from school and your mom would be sat at the table in the kitchen, a bag of frozen peas pressed up against her cheek. You can't remember when she stopped smiling when she saw you, it must have been sometime between grade one and two. At first, she stopped smiling at you, then at anything at all.

Kusa and you would sit on the landing and listen to your parents talk but you never truly felt as if you were actually there. It would always dissolve somehow and you'd cover your ears, trying to hide from the sound of screaming and broken things. Kusa would tug you into him, try and keep you safe.

Heart.

That's what his name means. There are more names listed in the diary, you find out that your name was almost Apinya. Kusa was almost Sam. You wonder what those boys would have been like.

The day she lost her mind, you were eleven years old and you didn't know how close she'd been. Your mom had always been a little sad, a little unsteady. Father had told you that she was just like that, she was a woman and women were always unstable. You didn't quite believe him but you didn't know how to disagree then. Your dad could be scary and just because he'd never hit you before, it didn't mean that he wouldn't.

It'd been hours since the yelling had stopped and honestly, you were just thirsty. Kusa had always said to stay upstairs after a fight because he'd taken a hit or two before. You didn't quite believe it then, that your parents could ever actually hurt you. Maybe it's because you were so stuck, so intent on believing that you were a happy family.

You knew to fear your father but you'd never feared your mom.

There was something wrong, the kettle had been whistling for minutes already and if she didn't turn it off then your father would get mad at her. "Mom?" you asked, but she just stood at the stove, her back to you and her hands gripping the counter as if it were the only thing that could tether her. "Mom? The ket-"

She turned then, her eyes widened in recognition but she was somewhere else. Her lip was split, there was blood running down her forehead but no wound that he could see. "Mom, it's whistling," you said and moved to help her.

"DON'T YOU TOUCH ME," she screamed it at you, fear and rage mixing together into a murky soup. She grabbed the kettle with a bare hand, the handle hissed as it met her flesh and before you had time to understand what was going on, boiling hot liquid was pouring down your forehead and over your eye. The scent of your skin cooking in the heat hit your nose first, then the pain, it pierced through you and then stayed there.

Your mind went elsewhere.

When you came to, your mother was being restrained, she was kicking her legs and screaming and there was a woman with a cold cloth on your face. You couldn't move your tongue, "Mmmaw" you tried, and the woman brushed your hair back in a brief, gentle gesture and injected you with something.

By the time you woke up again, your head was bandaged and home was displaced. Machinery beeped around you and your brother was curled up asleep in a chair beside your bed. Mom was nowhere to be seen, your father wasn't there either.

You fell asleep again sometime later.

After that, your mom didn't live with you anymore. She lived in a building attached to the hospital and you had to make appointments to see her. Some days she didn't recognize you and that hurt. It was rare that she did and then she'd spend all your time with her badgering you to tell her about what had happened to your face. You didn't know how much you were allowed to tell her or what might set her off.

Home was bleak.

It was just Kusa, Father and you. There was Sandra as well, a maid father had hired because mom wouldn't be around to take care of you. Father was barely home and when he was, he was training Kusa and you having decided years ago that his sons wouldn't be reaping fodder to die at the end of a career's blade. It had always meant long mornings in training, school, homework, bed. Kusa and you had lived that way for years and your mom's outburst didn't stop any of that for long.

Then, one morning when you were thirteen or so, Kusa didn't come down for training. Father sent you to get him but his room was empty, his bed unused.

After that, your father had no one to beat but you.

At least you were the third choice.