My life began in a small house on the outskirts of Jakarta, where the walls seemed to keep secrets that were never to be told. My name is, say, rina - a woman who was born with a heart too soft for this harsh world. But since the age of five, the house was no longer safe. My own father became a dark shadow of a lurking shadow.
I still remember that first day so clearly, like a wound that never really healed. That night, for whatever reason-maybe I cried too hard, or just because my father was angry at the world-the massive, heavy TV remote knob hit me in the head. It hurts like hell. My head was instantly firm, blue-black bruises, and warm blood dripping slowly in my hair. I screamed, but dad just looked at me cold, like I wasn't his blood. No hugs, no apologies. Only fear began to take root in my little soul.
The next days are getting worse. Father often carried a big bamboo pill-a pointed at the end, sharp like a knife, and so heavy. My brother and I, who were smaller than me, were targeted. Our backs were struck in turn, the sound of the bamboo broke the air like a whip. His scars appeared deep blue, forming painful lines that remained unbroken for weeks. The two of us could only cry silently in a corner, the body shaking, tears mixed with sweat and dust. No mother is that tough