Whirlwind | W.M.

16

Seattle, U.S.A.
2005

Screams are never a good thing. Screams always mean there's pain, anger, loss, despair hidden within those thundering sounds. It shakes us to the bone, forcing us into a corner or out the door in a desperate run, whether literally or figuratively but like everything else, if you hear it enough it starts to become background noise. Screams and sharp words begin to equate to the buzzing sound of a television when you're drifting off, or the jumbled conversations of a busy street. It's loud, it's audible, but our minds learn to put them in the corner.

I learned that at a very young age.

Starry eyed dreams and colourful drawings on refrigerator doors weren't what was enclosed in the four walls that I used to call home. It was a push and pull, one that kept me in the corner with the palms of my hands pressed to Lara's ears, each of us trembling as everything shook around us. Their words travelled through the walls, the sound of breaking glass and exchanges that dripped in hatred trying to penetrate the lullaby I so desperately sung for the both of us, just trying to drown it out.

Most of the time, we wouldn't even know what they were fighting about. Most of the time, it would surface from the most mundane things like our father being ten minutes late to dinner or our mother wearing a scowl to greet him at the table. Sometimes, they don't even have to scream. Sometimes the resentment that brewed in their eyes was loud enough, deafening, belittling.

"Was it because of me?" Lara whispers when the front door slams shut, usually signalling that one of them has left.

"No, of course not."

"I- I broke the vase. Mama is mad, she thinks Daddy did it." Lara painfully theorizes, nuzzled into my side as we somehow made ourselves fit on my single bed, covered in a Mickey Mouse duvet I had begged our mother to get me on a trip to Disneyland.

The happiest place on earth, they said, so I thought if I could bring a piece back it'd make our home happier too. But I was young and naïve and so, so wrong. Nothing could make it happier, no matter how many golden stars Lara brings home, no matter how many chores I complete or cards I write. None of it ever worked.

"They're just tired, okay? I promise it wasn't you." I whisper, my hand finding the back of her head to gently soothe her in place. Her arm was tightly wrapped around torso, little hands bundling up the fabric of my pyjamas so tight that her knuckles turned white.

God, if I could turn it off for her I would.

"They're always tired." Lara brokenly utters, pressing herself tighter against me when footsteps began to ring through the cracks of my bedroom door.

"It's okay, I'm right here."

She relaxes in my arms, her little hand travelling to trace a flower atop my stomach. She does it over and over, going over the same spot, drawing the same lines with increasing desperation. I wasn't sure at that point if it were for me or her, if she was desperately trying to make herself believe everything would be okay, frantically trying to tug me along too.

"Lexa! Lara! Open the door!" Our mother's voice pierces through the cracks, her heavy, thudding knocks rocking the room as Lara tenses up in my arms.

"Open the door now!" She demands harshly, screaming at the top of our lungs as I slowly peel Lara off of me.

"No, don't do it." She begs in a panicked whisper, tear stained eyes looking back at me with a plead that rips through my chest.

"I have to." I reply softly, offering her an apologetic gaze as she backs up into the corner of my bed, holding a pillow that was nearly as big as her to her chest as though she was trying to ready herself for a blow.