Fragile (standard:Inspirational stories, 2913 words)
Author: girl2love	Added: Jun 16 2003	Views/Reads: 3699/2279	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Summary: This story is for my parents and I thought especially of my grandparents during this story, and I realize how you can be near someone and not know that person at all, this one is about secrets kept from each other and growing up in difficult time

F r a g i l e 

Confusion 

The mystery of my birth shrouds me. I know that I was born in the year
1931 but I could not be exactly sure when or where I was born. Mother 
never told me. She would get furious and her face would turn black 
whenever I mentioned my birth. It was as though I had offended her by 
being born. It was later that I realized how true this was. 

My childhood was a happy, carefree one. Every day, I would skip happily
down the long dirt road that leaded to my house. Mother would always be 
waiting at the door, her hand holding a plate of treats for me. I loved 
those treats Mother made especially for me. They made me feel loved. It 
didn't matter that Father was hardly home and that I had no friends nor 
siblings for company. I was contended having Mother. 

I learnt that Father's long absences from our lives often meant that he
was drinking. Mother had long ago given up on him. I always wondered if 
they had ever loved each other. When I was younger, they had at least 
looked at each other with love in their eyes. Now, that love had been 
replaced by hurt and resentment. Mother no longer treated Father as her 
husband. She brought me up without any help from Father. In my eyes, 
Father was a virtual stranger. He only came back one or twice a year. 
Even then, during his rare visits, he refused to acknowledge my 
existence. 

I often pondered why he treated me like that. I grew up in an
environment where my whole world was my Mother. She was my strength. 
When Mother was happy, I was happy. When Mother was sad, I was sad. I 
had a father. I had a mother. I had a good family background. But why 
did things turn out so horribly wrong? 

The year I turned eight was when everything changed. Father ceased to
exist in our lives. He did not bother to come home anymore. This 
affected Mother greatly. I could never understand why she cared for 
him. From then on, Mother was often unhappy. She barely smiled. It was 
as though Mother had lost a part of her. Mother would not tell me. She 
often said that I was better off not knowing. 

Mother often sat in our front porch, gazing at the driveway. Mother
never worked. We still continued to live in our fine house and money 
was never a problem. As I grew older, I often wondered where the money 
came from. Mother kept a diary. It was the only sign that I still had a 
mother. I did most of the housework and cooking. Mother had taught me 
well. 

The years passed slowly. In the early 1940s, World War II was going on
in the world. With the help of some male neighbors, Mother installed a 
small secret room under the floor of our bed. Our bed was huge, and 
could not be easily lifted. The Japanese would never think to look 
there. During raids, where the Japanese came and took valuables, they 
also raped women and young girls. I was roughly around my early teens. 
They had already taken countless girls my age for their own pleasure. 
Since I rarely stepped out of my house, I had no idea what they looked 
like or what they really did to people. 

I was not allowed out of my house all those years. I could not even look
out of the window, as Mother feared that one of them would spot me. 
They were not interested in Mother. They thought her too dirty and old. 
They did not know that Mother had purposely rubbed streaks of dirt and 
shorn her hair ragged so that they would leave her alone. Whenever the 
Japanese came to our house, I was in the secret room. I felt safe 
there. The Japanese would not be able to hurt me. 

I had a friend living next door. Her name was Anya. She did not have to
hide from the Japanese. Everyone in the neighborhood readily agreed 
that the Japanese would not want a scrawny little girl like her. Nobody 
noticed, but Anya was growing. She had promising potential of being a 
beauty in her face. Her large, liquid eyes, cute button nose, along 
with sensuous lips drew the attention of a young Japanese soldier. 
Soon, the Japanese soldier took Anya away. She was only fourteen. 

Even I could not hide for long. When I was thirteen, the Japanese
soldiers came unexpected. Mother had not put on her rags and smeared 


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