Hidden Jewels (Short Stories)

2)The things we hate

Published: Monday, October 16th 2017 4:02 am

This story was written for a school assignment, and I thought I'd share it with you all.

        I hated it. I was only ten when it happened. From what I could tell, it was tragic. I didn't know what was going on. I didn't. I didn't even know what happened. All I could do was piece it together from my parents reactions. I was a simple kid and didn't do much. I merely played on my game boy whilst sitting on my beenbag chair in the corner of the room. No matter how many times the suggestion to play outside at the playground down the road came from my parents, I didn't budge.

I could even hear the kids laughing, playing, and screaming with each other as I was "supposed to" because I was a kid. But I was never like that. I was never that kid.

The day it happened I barely remember what the day even looked like because I hadn't been outside yet. It was the afternoon, it was raining, the air was blowing cool air around the house, and everyone was home. My brothers were upstairs with their friends playing their GameCube, my mother was in the kitchen making dinner, and my father was in his office. I had one headphone covering one ear whilst my other ear wasn't covered. I had a clear view of my mother in the kitchen making lasagna for the night. I also remember chuckling as she tried dancing along to the song playing throughout the front rooms and kitchen, but was failing.

However, it was short lived as my father emerged from his office with a frown and the house phone clutched in his hand. At first he was looking in the kitchen for a while, then he turned to me and faintly smiled. I wanted to ask what was wrong. I wanted to know why he stood there for so long with a look he barely wore. My father had always been a kind and loving man. He always worked hard to make sure we had everything we needed and then some. Even when Grandpa had passed away last year he didn't let that stop him. Even when he was laid off from his job for three months he didn't give in. But now is not like the other times. Now scared me.

Slowly, hesitantly, he went in and said something to make her turn around and hold her heart. She playfully placed her hands on her hips as they began talking. I couldn't hear anything. The music was too loud, so the only thing I could do was watch. I saw all of it. My game was forgotten and my eyes were glued to them to see their next move. I head and felt my heart pounding in my chest and my mouth fell slightly agape from the suspense of it all. I remember my mother falling down to her knees in agony and my father falling with her so that he could catch her. I didn't see the tears yet, but I could feel them. She didn't cry out or scream, but as I looked at her, I wanted to display all of the emotions she kept inside.

At ten years old I have never experienced heartbreak. I've ever been in so much pain that it hurt to live, to move on. Nobody young or old should experience that type of pain. I was never oblivious to the pain the world could inflict upon anyone. My parents have always been there to shelter us from things like that. The verdict is still out on whether or not that was the right call. But at ten years old and remembering this moment, I was glad for them doing that then.

I was glued to my spot with no intention on moving. It was like I had no control over my body movements anymore. It was like all I could do was watch and nothing else. I remember feeling so helpless and small. My parents just sat there on the floor in the kitchen as my mother silently cried into his chest. Even from the distance I was at I could see the tears begin to fall from her eyes, down her face and onto both of them. Like I said, I never knew what heartbreak felt like before. But watching my mother break broke me.

I didn't understand the stinging pain my heart had or why a single tear rolled down my own face. I didn't know what happened or what was going on. All I knew was that I hated it. I didn't know what I was hating, the moment or memory maybe. The situation. Everything. But I hated it. The faint footsteps of someone coming down the stairs broke me out of my trance like state and I turned in that direction. One of my brothers and his friend immediately turned their heads in the direction of the kitchen with nothing but confusion once they had reached the end of the stairs.

I think they asked me what was wrong, but I don't remember tuning anything in. The second my father walked into the kitchen, everything was tuned out.

"I hate this," I whispered to myself. I placed my gameboy down on the floor and brought my knees up to my chest. Lightening cracked outside as I placed my chin on my knees and allowed another tear to roll down my cheek and turned my eyes back to the kitchen. "I hate this."

I never did find out what happened or why that day changed life in our house. The days didn't feel the same and the tension could be cut with a knife. That was also the last time I saw my mother break down. She had always been a strong woman, but even the strongest of us need a break from holding everyone else up. I only asked once about what had happened, and that was a week after it happened.

"Nothing you need to worry about."

Even until this day I remember my father telling me this. I didn't dare want to ask my mother. To anyone else she was the same women they lived across the street, down the street, or next door to. She stopped dancing in the kitchen. Her smile was there but it dimmed so much. Her eyes sparkled, but not as much as before. As time went on I didn't want to know. I didn't want to know what could have caused such a change in my parents. I still hate it. The memory, the situation, the emotions, all of it. I always will.

The end