Dear Stanley [Watty's 2019. Completed]

Slap

Saturday, March 17th

Dear Stanley,

Sometimes, I feel as if the world is corroding and crumbling into the tiniest atoms, like everything is caving in and I can't do anything about it except stand stupidly and watch the destruction happen, watch the people I love fight and clash. It hurts. It burns. It feels like drinking acid and watching that acid burn and fizzle your heart into ashes.

Mom and Dad were fighting again.

And of course, I could only hear Mom's constant screeching. Dad remained quieter, calmer.

It's Saturday night and I was in home doing work all day, the last meal I had was breakfast. I wanted to go downstairs and get something to eat but I was so scared that I was going to run into them. I've become weak from skipping too many meals and not eating properly.

But I didn't want to go downstairs and risk running into an angry parent.

My stomach growled again. I felt as if I was going to pass out.

I opened the door a crack and slipped through it, standing just outside my room. The house was silent. I couldn't hear anyone. I exhaled, not realizing I was holding my breath and quietly padded down the carpeted stairs to the bottom floor, holding the chocolate banister. The lights were all on in the kitchen, and I stayed at the last step, listening for something.

Nothing. I heard nothing.

I stepped on light feet on the cold white tiles and entered the kitchen, turning all the lights off out of habit, but I froze once I saw across from me, sitting at the dining table, was Mom.

The dining area had no lights on, so she was just a delicate figure sitting at the table, engulfed in darkness. She was sitting like a statue, staring straight at me, saying nothing. Her expression was blank. I don't think she was aware I was there even though I was right in front of her.

I cautiously went to fridge and pulled out some pasta from a few days ago and put it in the microwave. Mom didn't make a movement or sound. She just continued staring straight ahead., her expression fiery enough to ignite my skin.

Once the pasta was done heating, I scarfed it down, right there, standing up at the kitchen counter, watching Mom watching nothing. My stomach craved more, but I ignored it and approached her.

"Mom?" I whispered. I was scared to break her. She looked like she had gone past the point of no return. Her eyes were glazed over, her face set in stone. She had become old from the last time I saw her.

"Mom?" I called again. I know that I said I wanted to avoid her, avoid both of them, but she was still my mother. She was still the women who nurtured me and taught me how to walk and talk. She was still the one who gave birth to me.

Mom didn't do anything, she kept her firm posture. Every step I took closer, I saw more and more flaws in her skin, saw how pasty she was, how thin, how wrinkly.

Finally, I was right beside her. Her back was so straight in the wooden chair, and her hands were crossed perfectly on the wooden dining table in front.

I heard her breathing soft yet rapidly, like she couldn't get enough air. It was the only indication that she was alive. Her brown hair looked dead, it lost its shine and volume.

I decide to try one last time, "Mom? Are you ok?"

No response.

Panic fluttered in my heart. What did I do? She was in an unbreakable trance, it's like she was a shell of a human devoid of emotion. I'd prefer her fighting to this, at least then I knew she was a functioning person.

I looked at her, and Stanley, I don't know what prompted me to do what I did, maybe it was desperation or the hunger or maybe both, but I opened my arms and gave her a tight hug. I used all my strength, and maybe I was trying to give the little bit of love and happiness I had to her.

But then I felt an icy and sharp blade of pain shoot up my cheek and I was surprised to find myself on the ground. Stars blurred my vision for a moment.

She slapped me.

She slapped me Stanley. My own mother.

Cold, hard, cruel and unforgiving. She slapped me. My cheek was numb and my jaw open in shock. I was on my back, one of my elbows propping me up, one of my hands holding my cheek. She was staring at me from the table, her eyes glinting with malice. She was still seated but one of her hand was out.

The one that slapped me.

It was shaking uncontrollably, but the rest of her was composed. Her face was in a snarl. She didn't look like herself. She looked mean. She looked ugly. She looked horrific.

"What are you doing?" She screamed, shouted, screeched, "What do you think you're doing?" She repeated.

"I..." I couldn't answer that, because truthfully, I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know what made me do that, made me hug her, "I don't know."

Mom lowered the hand, the hand that slapped me, and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It didn't work, instead she started shaking violently. It was as if she was possessed.

"Look Stan- I mean Nicolas," Her eyes widened as she realized her mistake, and her voice came out weaker, "I'm tired. I'm tired and I don't want to deal with anything right now, I'm sorry. We can talk another time." Mom said. I felt like I couldn't breathe, I was drowning in despair. Those words absolutely shattered me into so many pieces. She sounded defeated but that sentence was still so frigid. It dropped in the tension-filled air between us, waiting for someone to pick it up, to respond.

I stood up on shaky legs, clutching my cheek. I nodded my head slowly, and walked backwards. My lower lip quivered with the promise of tears. Mom sighed and lowered her head into her hands, her arms on the wooden table now. Maybe she was going to cry as well.

I didn't stay around to hear it. As soon as the first salty tear slipped out of my eye, I bolted out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room. I closed the door softly behind me, locked it, and slid onto the ground.

I had absolutely no one to talk to Stanley. I felt completely alone. Even right now, as I am writing this in my bed, I realize these letters are my only way of communication.

Mom and Dad always used to get annoyed by your boisterous personality, and you used to always get in trouble, but at least they loved you. You were their hope to a bigger and better world. You weren't academically that smart, I'll admit that, but you had this charm and it was obvious that that charm was going to lead you to big places once you had been tamed a little. But I'm nothing like you. You are Stanley, and I am Nicolas.

My eyes still sting from the tears and there is an ugly yellowish tinge on my cheek. She hit me hard enough to cause a bruise. I sure as hell did not want to go back downstairs and get an ice packet, so I couldn't even put ice on my throbbing cheek. This hurts even more than my broken nose and concussed head did, because this was caused by Mom.

That's the worst part about family I guess. If anyone else in the world slapped me on the cheek, ya it would sting but my heart wouldn't be aching like this.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, I'll admit it. But imagine you were in my place. Imagine if you were absolutely alone -a singular force- amongst billions of people? How would you feel, Stanley?