THREE

Father is carried piggy back style by another neighbour.

I gasp at the sight of my old man. His bruised hand hangs limp by his side as he is laid on our straw bed. He moans in pain. Little Thomas starts to whimper and I have to shield him from seeing father. Mother kneels down by the side of the bed, softly calling out to father. As she calls him, she wipes the flood of tears that come streaming down her face.

“Tim,” she whispers, choking back sobs. I want to cry too.

Father’s face is bruised, his eyes swollen shut and there are bloody welts across his back. He had been whipped. Rose steps out of the bathroom and stifles a cry.

“Hurry! Get cloth and water!” I manage to croak out before pushing Thomas into the arms of Samuel’s wife. She has come to help. Swiftly, she carries a bawling Thomas out of the room.

I seethe with anger. Beasts. The mafia are beasts. How could they do this to father?!

Rose comes back in with a wooden round basin and a clean cloth.

I quickly help mother to strip off father’s bloodied clothes. His other hand is badly wounded. The bones of his fractured left arm protrude through his skin in a ghastly manner. Even a fool can tell that his hand and arm will never be the same again.

“Tim,” mother calls out gently once more.

This time he stirs, his eyes are glazed but suddenly he writhes all over like a frothing animal with rabies fighting off an invisible enemy. He tries to sit up but is too weak.

“Father…” I call out. My heart breaks at the sight of him. It feels as if a thousand needles has pierced my heart.

He finally awakes and shivers. There is fear in his eyes.

“Run, they’re coming. You have to leave..” he gasps and wheezes.

Mother gently soothes him as I wipe off the blood from his body. There is pus forming around his wound. This is not good. We don’t have any medication.

“It’s alright Tim. You’re home. You’re fine. We’re all here.”

Father keeps shaking his head, a tremor runs through his body as I apply water to clean his wound, “No..you don’t understand…you have to leave now..”

Then he falls into unconsciousness once more. 

We nurse throughout night and I swear that his once salt and peppered hair turned completely white overnight. Mother and I take turns while Rose tries to soothe a weeping Thomas to sleep. I can hear him even now, calling out for mother and father. Rose is singing him a lullaby in the room next door.

A rumour begins to spread among the villagers like wildfire. Everyone is saying the same thing, the mafia is coming. They have run out of land and are eyeing our little village on top of the hill. Father had tried to reason with them.

“There’s nothing but potatoes and trees up there. You’ll only be wasting your time and resources,” father had told them. I guess the mafia did not like what they heard for father ended up half dead after that.

***

It is the third day since father came back and I awake in the corner of the room to moans of pain. I look at the round little clock which hangs at the wooden wall.

Damn! I had overslept. It’s been two hours since I last checked on father. Mother is nowhere to be seen but I can smell potatoes and spices coming in from the kitchen. Quickly I head over to where father lays and touch his forehead. It is hot. He is running a fever.

Gently I open the bandage around his wounds. What kind of torture weapon did they use on him? The broken skin is badly infected and swollen.

Father needs a doctor.

“Father, can you hear me?” I squeeze his hand gently but he doesn’t reply. He only mumbles incoherently. This is no good. I quickly run out to get mother. We must find help.

 ***

ROSE’s POV

I could not sleep last night, nor the night before. Every time I close my eyes, I hear father’s screams of pain and whimpers of fear. It is driving me crazy.

This morning, it is no different. I step out of my room only to see Lily run out of father’s room.  Our house is small and it doesn't take a genius to tell where she is going. It's either the bathroom or the kitchen. In her mad dash to the kitchen, she does not see me so I quietly slip into our parents’ cramped room where father lays.

He is moaning still. I fear he will not get better. He has not been drinking the broth mother has been making for him.

“Lily?” father calls out weakly.

“It’s Rose,” I walk over to him and pats his head. His forehead is burning up and his eyes can no longer see. They had been brutal with him, the mafia.

“Rose…” he whispers hoarsely. There is a smell on him, it comes from his wound. It smells as if he is rotting. He lifts a trembling hand, trying to touch my face but for some reason, I recoil from his touch.

I blink at my reaction. This is father, surely I am not repulsed by him?

I briefly catch his hand and lay it on his side, letting go of his hand a little too fast, “Hush father, you need to rest.”

He shakes his head with great difficulty, he knows he will not get better. Not without medical help. And we have none. Who would dare help us? It’s obvious father had gotten on the bad side of the mafia.

It took Samuel and another neighbour one whole day just to bring him back. Add the other three days that he’s been lying sick in bed. That totals up to four and his condition has only worsened. At this rate, he will not make it. Even if he does, life will be difficult for him. 

Maybe it is better for him to die. 

Yes, maybe he should just go away in peace. That might be better for him. And us.