Chapter 9:- How I Met Your Father

I held her close, feeling the weight of her words sinking in as she continued spilling out her insecurities. Her grip tightened around me, and I could feel her shaking, her breathing uneven as she spoke.

"I've always felt so weak, honey," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't have the courage to stand up for myself, not when people harass me, not when they look at me like… like I'm nothing but an object. It's like I'm frozen… I can't do anything, and I hate it."

Her voice broke, and I felt a lump form in my throat as I listened. This was deeper than I had ever known, a part of her she had never shown me before. The strong front she always put up was crumbling, and beneath it was a woman who felt powerless.

"I've always had to rely on someone else to protect me," she continued, her words coming faster, like she had been holding them in for so long. "I hate feeling like that, but I just… I don't know how to be strong on my own. I never have."

She paused, her breath hitching as if she was gathering the strength to say the next part. "It wasn't always like this, you know.

There was a time when I thought I could handle things, that I could be strong. But after… after what happened, I've never been the same."

"What happened?" I asked softly, already dreading the answer.

She swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "It was years ago… before you were even born, or I had met your father, it was when I was in my teenage. I… I was almost gang-raped, honey."

My body went cold. I wasn't sure how to respond, the shock of her words hitting me like a punch in the gut.

"I trusted them," she said, her voice shaking. "They were people I knew. People I thought were my friends… but one night, they showed their true colors.

They cornered me… and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't scream, couldn't fight. It was like my body just shut down."

She shivered against me, and I held her tighter, feeling the depth of her fear and pain. "They hit me… knocked me unconscious. When I woke up… I was surrounded by dead bodies."

My heart pounded in my chest, my clothes torn, the image she was painting too horrific to fully grasp.

"I don't know who saved me," she continued, her voice thick with emotion. "But someone did. The police were there… They told me that some kind of vigilante had killed all of them. I didn't even know what had happened until I saw the blood. I thought it was a nightmare."

I could hear the tears in her voice, the memory clearly still haunting her. "From that moment on, I realized how weak I really was. I couldn't protect myself, not even when my life was in danger. And since then, I've always needed someone… always needed someone stronger to save me."

She buried her face in my chest, her words muffled but still full of emotion. "I've tried so hard to pretend like it doesn't affect me, like I'm fine. But I'm not.

I'm so scared all the time, scared that something like that will happen again and I won't be able to stop it. I'll just… freeze again, like I did that night."

I closed my eyes, feeling her pain as if it were my own. "Mom… I'm so sorry."

"I hate being like this," she said, her voice breaking again. "I hate feeling so weak and vulnerable. But no matter how hard I try, I can't shake it. I can't shake the fear."

Her words tore at my heart. She had always seemed too kind for the world, but now I could see the truth: she was fragile, her spirit cracked by trauma she had never truly healed from. Her pureness, her innocence… It made her the most vulnerable person I had ever known.

"I don't know how to be strong," she whispered. "I don't know how to protect myself. I've always relied on someone else… and I hate it. I hate that I can't stand up for myself." she kept on repeating it cursing her weakness.

I gently stroked her hair, trying to soothe her even though I knew words wouldn't be enough to heal the deep wounds she carried.

"You don't have to be strong all the time," I said softly. "You've been through so much… it's okay to feel scared. But you're not weak, Mom. You're still here, still fighting. That takes strength, even if you don't see it. And don't be so hard on yourself, you always have me protecting you,"

She sniffled, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. "I don't feel strong. I feel broken."

I shook my head. "You're not broken. You've survived things most people couldn't even imagine. And you're still here. That's strength."

She looked up at me, her eyes red and swollen from crying. "But what if something like that happens again? What if next time… there's no one there to save me? You are not around to save me."

"There will always be someone to save you," I said firmly. "I'll always be there. I won't ever be too far away from you, I'll always come to protect you. I won't let anything happen to you, Mom. I swear. You are my everything, if I won't protect you, whom wouldI?"

She held onto me tightly, her body trembling as the last of her tears fell. "Thank you… thank you for always being there for me, even when I feel like I don't deserve it."

"You deserve it," I whispered. "You deserve to feel safe. And I'll make sure you always do."

She rested her head against my chest, her breathing slowly evening out as she whispered, "You remind me so much of your father."

I didn't say anything, letting her voice carry me back with her memories. There was a softness in her tone now, a warmth that wasn't there before, and I knew she was thinking of my father.

She was still drunk, perhaps very drunk that it would be impossible for her to get over the hangover until morning, no matter what she does, perhaps she doesn't even remember what she's saying right now just letting her heart out.

"It was years ago," she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Long before you were born, and I hadn't met your father yet. I was young then, still figuring out who I was, where I belonged in this world. But I always felt so small… so powerless."

She let out a small, shaky breath, and I could feel her sinking deeper into the memory.

(Flashback No Jutsu)

It was a sunny afternoon in the neighborhood, the streets unusually quiet, except for a few distant voices. She walked quickly, hoping to get home before anything could happen. Her heart raced, but she tried to keep calm. She had heard about the boys—local hooligans who roamed the area, always harassing women. Today, unfortunately, she was alone.

As she turned a corner, her heart sank. There they were, a group of them, leaning against the wall, laughing loudly.

They spotted her immediately, eyes locking onto her like a predator would to prey. Her steps quickened, but it was too late.

"Hey! Where are you going so fast?" one of them called out, his voice dripping with mockery.

She didn't respond, head down, hoping they'd leave her alone. But their footsteps quickened, and she felt them closing in.

"Don't ignore us, sweetheart!" another shouted, laughter following his words.

Fear gripped her tightly as she kept walking. But before she knew it, they were all around her, blocking her path. She could feel their eyes on her, their leers stripping away her confidence.

"What's wrong? Scared?" one of them sneered, stepping closer, his hand reaching for her arm.

Her body froze. She tried to move, to scream, but nothing came out. It was happening again—the same terrifying feeling from years ago when she had been so powerless. One of the boys grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward him.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his grip tightening.

Terror surged through her, and she fought to breathe, panic rising as she felt herself being dragged. She couldn't break free, couldn't do anything. Her legs felt like they were glued to the ground, her voice trapped in her throat.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared beside her. A man, tall and calm, stepped forward. His voice was firm, but not loud.

"Let her go."

The boys looked at him and burst into laughter. "Who do you think you are? Some kind of hero?" one of them mocked.

But the man didn't flinch. He simply stood there, his eyes steady. "I said, let her go."

The boy gripping her arm sneered. "Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?"

Before she could even react, the man moved—fluid and precise. His hands formed into mudras, quick and deliberate. In a flash, he shifted into a stance she had never seen before. It was graceful, yet filled with tension, like a cobra about to strike.

One of the hooligans lunged at him, but he sidestepped with ease, twisting his body in a swift motion. His elbow snapped back, striking the boy in the ribs with the force of a hammer. The boy gasped, collapsing to the ground in agony.

The other two charged him at the same time. He pivoted on his foot, one arm sweeping out to block a punch, while his other hand gripped the second attacker's wrist.

With a fluid motion, he flipped the boy over his shoulder, sending him crashing into the wall. The remaining boy stumbled backward, fear creeping into his eyes, but it was too late.

The man dropped low, his legs coiling like a spring, and with a powerful kick to the chest, sent the last hooligan flying several feet into the air before landing hard on the pavement.

The thugs were on the ground now, groaning and gasping for breath, clutching at their injuries.

She stared in awe. His movements were like a dance—an ancient, deadly dance. She recognized it faintly from stories her grandfather had told her.

It was Kalaripayattu, one of the oldest martial arts in the world, passed down through centuries in India.

It wasn't just about strength—it was about using the opponent's force against them, about mastering balance and precision.

The man stood over the fallen boys, his breathing calm and steady, as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

"Go," he said coldly, his voice carrying an unshakable authority.

The hooligans scrambled to their feet, bruised and terrified, and ran off without a second glance.

Author's Note:

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