I opened the front door for her. I was visiting my aunt when the doorbell rang, and she rang the doorbell like someone was fighting for their life, and later I would find out that she barely escaped.
She was fighting for her life.
My aunt was seated on the sofa when I opened the door, the woman came rushing in, but my aunt was expecting her.
She was on the phone talking to her, a few minutes before she arrived. This was in the 90s, there were no cell phones yet.
She was calling from a phone booth, near a gasoline station. Later I would find out she had nothing on her, not a single penny. She begged someone for some coins to use the pay phone.
She didn’t have any money to pay for the cab ride either that took her to my aunt’s house. I paid the cab driver.
As soon as I stepped back into the house, I could hear the woman sobbing, in between the words that were coming out of her mouth. I saw my aunt beside her, holding a glass of water, that the woman takes a sip from while she continues wailing.
Let me just call her Camille, it isn’t her real name. And this was her story.
. . .
I was barely out of my teens when this happened. I just happened to be at my aunt’s house because she wanted to see me. I tried to excuse myself, but my aunt told me with her hands to stay.
Besides my aunt wasn’t feeling all that well, and there was nobody else in the house except us.
My aunt hasn’t seen Camille for years, she was even surprised how she found out where she was, or how she knew her telephone number. Camille said she got it from a common friend.
For some reason, that day stayed with me. I remember how beautiful Camille was, later I would find out that she could have become an actress except her life took a different turn.
She was in a red blouse and jeans. She was also wearing very dark sunglasses.
And when she took it off, her eyes were bulging and swollen. She had a black eye, she was punched in her face. She had bruises on her arms. And it wasn’t the first time, her husband had beaten her to a pulp so many times, that she had lost count.
. . .
Camille and my aunt were the best of friends. I can’t remember now the story relayed by my aunt about how they met. They got along so well, but they lost contact after Camille got married to a scion of a political family.
Unlike my aunt, who wasn’t only a jack of all trades, but a highly independent woman, and always put her family first. Camille wanted the good life. She craved to live in luxury but she never wanted to work although she once dreamed of becoming an actress.
She chose the easy way and that was to marry into money.
Not only did she say yes the moment her husband proposed, but she also got her big wedding. Her husband was a member of a prominent political family. And everyone knew he would soon be in politics like his father, and his father’s father before him.
. . .
Her father-in-law, the patriarch
I knew the name when she mentioned it. I have seen his face in the newspaper. And the family name has been in politics for generations. Everyone knew who they are, and the story that Camille was about to tell my aunt was beyond disbelief.
The father, the family’s patriarch became Camille’s abuser.
The honeymoon didn’t last very long. Her good-for-nothing husband was living with his parents. He doesn’t have a job, they have businesses.
All political families here have their businesses, and only a handful of the politicians can be considered middle-class. Everyone belonged to families who either landed or became wealthy after they become politicians.
That’s why they never leave politics, to many it is their bread and butter. Even today, politicians kill their rivals and their enemies.
The culture of guns, goons, and gold.
. . .
While Camille loved parties, my aunt later told me that Camille never drinks or smokes. She didn’t want to end up like her father, who was a good-for-nothing drunk. But on that day, she came to my aunt’s house, she pulled out her cigarettes, and puffed a few, in between her tears, as she recounts the horrors of her life.
She also acted strange.
I was young then, and I only realized many years after that she must be on drugs that day. Her husband, who got himself into drugs was the one who introduced it to her.
And her life turned into a nightmare not even having their firstborn child could save her from spiraling down the depths of hell.
One night, an expected visitor came to her room, it was her father-in-law.
. . .
The family secret
Soon, the visits became more frequent. And then it was the brother of her husband. Later there were parties and every friend of her husband took advantage of her.
She took comfort in drugs and alcohol to numb her.
It was the family secret.
She wasn’t alone, the wife of her husband’s brother was living the same life. But unlike Camille, her sister-in-law embraced it, and besides, she never had to deal with domestic abuse.
Her husband’s brother was the genius behind the family’s wealth. He wasn’t into drugs like Camille’s husband. He was a ‘family man.’
If I didn’t hear it myself, I would think all of this can only happen in the movies. But I know life is stranger than fiction.
Mom told me of a similar story, of a family ostracized by the community after the Japanese occupation. The wife of the man died at the hands of a Japanese soldier, and soon after he took his daughter to be his surrogate wife, and they had children.
. . .
Escape from hell
There was more to Camille’s story. Many of the details have long escaped my memory. All I knew, was that on that day, she came to my aunt, she was looking for an escape.
There were other names she dropped. Names of wives of other politicians, she met during the wild parties. One could only gasp at the secrets these powerful men live behind their bedroom doors.
. . .
She came to my aunt for help. The only thing I remember is that my aunt scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it over to Camille. She also gave Camille some cash.
. . .
Camille
I had to call a cab for Camille, her destination unknown.
After that day, I never saw Camille again, and neither did my aunt. I lived with my aunt for months. One day, the doorbell rang again. I opened the door, there was a man standing in front of me.
He introduced himself as the driver of Camille, he called her ‘Madam.’ He handed me an envelope and a fruit basket for my aunt. He didn’t say anything else except that it came from Camille.
And then he left.
I closed the door and gave the envelope to my aunt.
When my aunt opened the envelope, there was cash and a piece of paper. And as soon as she held that piece of paper, the same one she scribbled on and gave to Camille, her face turned pale.
There was horror on her face, an unimaginable fear came over her.
She asked for a glass of water.
. . .
My aunt never spoke about Camille. I never knew what happened to her. But one thing was clear,
The family she married into, was above the law. She knew too much of their secrets and their evil ways.
Someone knew of her plans.
I can only imagine what happened to her after she got into the cab I found for her.
She went back to her house, where evil threads.
If only, she took my aunt’s advice. That piece of paper, whoever’s name was on it, was her ticket to freedom.
But who am I to judge her?
. . .
Can we really escape from hell?
The truth is very few will and live to tell their story of redemption. We all have our version of hell.
We make some bad decisions and they become like bricks thrown at a glass and break it into pieces. It’s not impossible to put back together a broken glass, but it will never be the same as it was before.
But it shouldn’t stop us. We can lift ourselves from the depths of hell. Be still and you are one foot less away from drowning in quicksand.
My aunt had been long gone. I knew she tried her best to help Camille, her friend of many years.
To my aunt, Camille would always be her friend who only wanted a better life, and who wanted to become an actress.
Camille had her taste of a good life, the luxurious life but it came with a hefty price.
For me, when I think of Camille she was a beautiful woman confessing to my aunt and her story still sends chills down my spine.
Thank you for reading.
. . .
—
This post was previously published on ILLUMINATION.
***
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