Essay : A False Accusation

An English essay homework.

There she goes again; yelling and shrieking like a mad woman, banging on the cold metal gates, shouting for me to let her into the humble little flat. That woman was my stepmother.

Just like nights before, she had returned home, dead drunk. Groggy from my disturbed sleep, I stood up and unlocked the door for her. Breathing through my sleeves, I took careful steps to avoid stepping on the thick puddles of puke that she had vomited, right through the gates and onto the cold tiled floors.

I tried helping her in, holding on to her left arm. But she resisted with much force, as usual. Pushing me away, she started spewing a series of profanities before whispering right into my ear. “Buzz off, you filthy child! Don’t you ever touch me!”

I recoiled in disgust at her reeked breath and soiled clothes and cursed under my breath– I would have to clean them up tomorrow, as always. Ignoring her, I left her on the couch and retired back to the comfort of my room.

Through the walls, I heard her muffled screams and cries, breaking the silence and tranquility of the night. She was yelling for my father, cursing him for abandoning her, for leaving her behind with such a mess. Leaving her behind with me, the troublesome mess.

My father disappeared years ago with his passport and money. He was never seen again. I remembered waiting at the door for him, night after night, yearning for his return. But he never did. After some time, I gave up waiting. I gave up hope. My stepmother was my new legal guardian. My only kin in this world.

The loud banging of the cupboard moments later woke me up to the present and cruel reality. My stepmother was searching for money again, no doubt to satisfy her craving for more alcohol. I dismissed it as I believed that we have no money lying around in the house. We were poor, with difficulties to make ends meet. Hers would be a fruitless search. Or so I thought.

I was awoken by my stepmother’s shrilled voice the very next day. “Give me back my money!” she yelled, standing by my bed. I groaned, clueless to what was happening. What money?

“You knew that I kept $300 in my drawer and you took it, didn’t you? I knew it long ago, you’re a filthy child! You rob and steal!” she taunted.

Three hundred dollars? She kept three hundred dollars in her drawer and refused to give it to me when I had to buy the groceries! And now she is accusing me of stealing when I did not know the existence of the money!

I tried explaining to her, saying that she took the money in her drunkard state and misplaced it but she chose not to believe me, adamant and firm on her point of view. “You thief! Disgusting child! You are worse than an animal! How do you want me to believe you? If it wasn’t you, then who?”

The energy in me was draining away and I was too tired to quarrel with her. She was unreasonable and beyond cure. Can she ever let me live in peace? I got on to do the dirty laundry she left behind last night and tried concentrating by blocking out her voice in my head while constantly gasping for fresh air. The clothes stank of vomit and beer.

It was then I felt a lump right in the wet pockets of her pants. Thinking that she left something lying around in the pockets again, I took the “lump” out.

I was greeted with a few blue Singaporean notes. Fifty dollars, five pieces of them.

I was shocked. But the surprised turned into annoyance. This is definitely the money she was harping about. She falsely accused me without checking properly! How could she?

I stormed into the living room, where she sat on the couch comfortably, reading a magazine as though nothing happened. I threw the pieces of fifty-dollar notes right onto her lap. I did not care whether I was behaving rudely – it no longer mattered.

“Is this the money you were talking about?” I demanded.

“Is this how you talk to me, you filthy girl! Look at you! You stink!” she shouted, as she eyed me, head to toe. She shook her head, picking up the pieces of blue notes and counted them, one by one.

“Can you do your mathematics? There is $50 missing!” she cried. “Where is the rest of the money? I knew that you stole it! So you’re now feeling guilty, eh? Surrender it now!”

I was speechless. Completely speechless. I found the money in her pocket and returned it to her. How would I know where the remaining money was? But nothing I said mattered to her anymore. She believed that I stole it, and I was used to being accused, being scolded.

Nothing I said mattered anymore, and thus, I would say no more.

With bloodshot eyes, I wiped my face hastily and ran upstairs to my room. Clutching at the picture of my family in happier times, my tears flowed freely. I placed my finger on the glass of the frame and left oily streaks across the smiling faces. The tears came and I cried inconsolably. Every tear drop carried with it bitter feelings of despair, sadness and injustice.