Sex violence in our culture
Nowadays the amount of maltreated women is raising and raising without any way of changing it. It’s true that goverments have prepared help, money indemnities to remake their lifes but the truth is that they don’t really prevent any of the cases.
The only thing they do singing a useless paper which forbbidens the man being near her. But just as lots of times when they come close to her lamentably, there’s nearly another victim.
There have been lot’s of cases in with a woman has been killed and then, the murderer has tried to commit suicide, but aparently, they never succeed in this second action, the question is, why are they so brave to kill someone but not theirselves?
The thing is that they should be under vigilation all day, but, if there are no suficient policemen to do that work, by don’t they just take them to jail? If burglars are taken into it, why not someone who violates human rights? Whe would like to make people think about it with this letter we found in the net, just to make up people’s mind:
“For you, bastard: Because you are so, because you have humiliated her, because you have mispreciated her, becauseyou hited her, slaped her, spited her, insulted her… because you have maltreated her. ¿Why did you do it? You say it’s her fault, ¿Don’t you? That she’s who removes you from the boxes, always contradicting and requiring money por thing you don’t need or hate: detergent, bayetas, vegetables … That’s when, in the middle of the discussion, with your “discipline method” trying to educate her. On top of that she whines, furthermore she live’s on your money and is so lucky that lives with you, a respectable man with clear ideas.What does she complain about?
I’ll tell you: She complains about not living, she lives, but dead. You make her feel ugly, stupid, inferior, clusmy… You indimidate her, you push her, you kick her…, kicks that I also suffered.
Until the last day. It was eleven o’clock and mum was siting on the sofa, with a sad look in her eyes, with a pale face, with rings under the eyes. She didn’t sleep at all during the night, like many others, because of the fear of you getting home, terrified of you wanting to screw her (as you would say, make) or beat her up just to hide your impotence due to drunkenness. After all she still continued pretty and I stayed in calm and confortable with my tiny legs doubled. She had already tidied up the home, washed the floor and ironed your clothes. Sudenly the lock sounds, she looks at the door and there’s you: The shirt out, without tie and drunk. Once more. Mum was shaking. Me too. It happened nearly everyday, but we didn’t get used to. Sometimes she asked herself: If he loses the control and kills me? Poor mum, she though she had to put up with it because in the end it was her fault, that you were a good person, who gave her a home and a life, however she couldn’t do always well what you wanted. I tried to open her eyes. I did it because I wanted to run away, both of us together… But, unfortunately, I couldn’t be undertood.
You got near while you was sweating, you wanted to continue the party. Mum said no, she begged you to go to bed, you might be tired. But your reality was another one. You think you can always do whatever you want. You forced her, took her wrists, pushed her and smashed against the wall. As usual, she finally gave up. I was screaming in my own way: don’t do it mum, don’t let him do it. Suddenly she heard me. Not this time! –said for herself-, she took your hands, elbowed you and could scape. I remember how your face changed in that moment. Surprised, confused, of course, because she never denied anything.
I was happy earlier than expected.
Because you wouln’t allow it. A punishment was neccesary to educate her. When a woman makes something rong she must learn a lesson. And the most efective one is the strenght: a punch in the mouth and a kick in the stomach, again and again…
And finally it happened.
Mum started blooding. With every hit, I bumped against her walls. I took her uterus with my tiny hands because I wanted to live. Blood was coming out while I deteriorated. My body and mum’s hurt to me. I think I broke something while she was falling unconscious in a pool of blood.
Because of I never got to be born. I never could pronounce the word mum. You maltreated my mum and you killed me.
And now I’m speaking to you. This letter is for you, bastard: because of her, because of the one who must have been my mother and never had a son. Because of me who I just was a fetus to whom you quited the right of living.
But in the end, you know, I’m happy. Mum’s gone. So sad, but serenely, with no violence, she denunced you and let the law decide your detiny. And one more thing: I never had your name nor call you dad. Nor see other children of human parents in the neighborhood pointing you because everyone knew that you are an abuser. And like others, you are a weak man. A vermin. A bastard.”
