CALL OUT MY NAME

1

'I can't do this.' I thought to myself.

I held my face in my palms then ran my fingers through my hair, leaving streaks of paint on the strands.

'I can't do this.'

I tugged at the corners holding the canvas onto the frame standing on the easel in front of me but the tough cotton material stood firm.

'I honestly just can't!'I mentally screamed.

My frustration reaching a cresendo, I punched the canvas repeatedly and as the material finally gave way under the unyeilding force, so did the anger and frustration that had previously held me in a vice like grip, like an almost too tight rubber band.

I sagged onto the carpeted floor, absolutely drained of all energy as I surveyed the mess I had made.

There were angry splatters of paint on the large white wall behind me and pieces of broken palettes and brushes were strewn across the room. I couldn't believe how much damage I'd done in the one hour after I got that phone call from my mother.

The thought alone was enough to reignite the anger and sadness that consumed me.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I needed some release.

Spotting the large marble vase seated on the glass coffee table, I moved without thinking, flinging it against the paint splattered wall as I relished in the sound of marble splattering into millions of fragments.

Rilled up, I heaved up the table with all my might and shoved as far as I could, hearing that shatter too.

"Its your fault Roselyn, its your fault our family is broken," my mother's voice echoed through my mind.
Angry tears streamed down my face bu I wasn't angry at her. I was angry at myself that even after all these years, I could still allow her to get to me. I took deep breaths, attempting to calm myself.

"You are a brat you know! A spoilt brat!" On the phone and just like in many other past instances, the hatred had resonated in her voice as she spoke the one line she knew would destroy me and all of a sudden, I was back to being that nine year old girl who tried so much but just never was enough for her mother.
I remember once,she had asked me to make her a cup of white tea, but she said I'd put in too much milk. I made it again and presented her the it before saying it had too much water. The third time. The fourth. The fifth. The sixth time she said it tasted like the kettle, that I had boiled it too much.

So the seventh time round, I'd left the kettle on the pot and retreated to my little bedroom.

"Roselyn!" She called.
I kept quiet, my heart silently pumping with fear.

"Roselyn," she called again. This time her voice was closer and closer, till at last she flung open the door.
I shuffled off the edge of the bed where I was seated, moving to the furthest corner.

Her eyes.
I'll never forget the look in her eyes.
I had never had someone look at me with such hatred, like I was a dirty stray dog.
In her hand was my father's handmade leather belt.

"How many times do I have to call you?" She asked, advancing towards me.
" How many times do I have to call you?" She taunted as she got closer.

I curled up into a tight ball, my back towards her as I tried to protect my head. I knew what was next.

*thwack* came the first lash, hard across my back.

*thwack*

*thwack*

"Mom!" I screamed out in agony.

"I'm not your mom you bitch. You spoilt brat! Your father, he is the reason you are so spoilt!"

It was like a drill.
Every other day when my father was at work, my brothers also away in boarding school, she'd have me in the same position for one reason or the other, and it always ended the same way, with me crying on the bed.

I used to try and tell my dad, but she always made it out to seem as if I was just an errant child with a perchance for lying, so I stopped telling him.
I stopped telling anyone anything.
I became part of the shadows, never heard, never given more than a glance and always trodded on.

I was now standing in my kitchen, staring at the granite counters and feeling the cold marble floor beneath my toes. The kitchen I had worked so hard to design.

Plates, glasses, cups, I flung anything breakable I could find at the wall, maybe the shattering would help me forget about my own shattered heart.
So I smashed and smashed, all to control the emotions that threatened to tear me apart. I smashed and smashed till there was nothing else to smash and I was left to face my own demons.

"Ana!" My neighbour's voice tore me out of my thoughts as she begun pounding on the door.

Maybe I could just ignore it and she'd leave. Like everyone else in my life.

"Ana!" Her voice grew more hysterical and urgent.
"Ana are you okay?"

"Hmm, just peachy," I replied in a whisper. I wasn't surprised that there was no reply. Of course she didn't hear me. Nobody ever did.

What did surprise me though, was the sound of the door to my loft breaking and the thud thud of rushed footsteps towards me.

Within seconds, Raquel, my neighbour, was in front of me, concern in her eyes as she took in my haggard form.
"Ana, you are bleeding," she said, gently holding up my arm to reveal a jagged cut I hadn't even noticed. "And your eyes Ana, are you high? Drunk?"

Oh dear Raquel, how could I explain that I was just sad. Incredibly so.

"She needs a hospital," a voice suddenly spoke up from behind me and a man stepped forward. It must have been him that broke down the door. He definitely had the build for it.

"No, no hospital." I said.
"But-" Raquel interjected.

"No hospital!" I said, my voice harsher than I intended. I couldn't go to a hospital. They reminded me too much of him, my brother.

"Okay but we definitely can't leave you here like this," Raquel spoke after a lengthy silence.