anthologies ♡ + stuff about me!

muted

I breathed in the new, humid air that greeted my lungs, absent of, funnily enough, warmth, as if every circulation of oxygen in my body was a reminder of why I ended up here. Every inch traveled, farther away from the home I once knew and now detested, was an indication of the magnitude of this situation. To make matters worse, I was moving to the other side of the country, far from the cool, Alaskan weather to the humid and musty Texan weather.

I hated every second of this, even more so because my own undoing wasn't even my fault, and even more so because I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't say anything about it-- no words of protest, sadness, or complaint. Nothing. Literally. My hollow throat held only a silent voice, and imagine the irony of your biggest curse being its own absence.

I glared at the vanishing image of the airport, holding back a cry that's been wanting/threatening to spill since three weeks ago. Afraid of further humiliation in front of my own family, I grabbed my notebook and scribbled hateful words instead, discovering early on that this was the only way I could vent without the wasted breaths and reddened cheeks. Five pages and 25 miles later, we arrived at my maternal grandparents' typical, Southern home: very rustic and, frankly, very huge for two people.

My mother opened the passenger door of our rented vehicle, while I followed suit, carrying my worn out bag and suitcase. My father, on the other hand, kept his hands on the steering wheel and glared outside the window, as if he was itching to leave immediately, refusing to look at me, even for a split second, even for a goodbye to his only daughter whom he may not see again for six months. I turned away in embarrassment and genuine disappointment.

As I lugged my suitcase out of the car, my mother and I walked up to the porch where we were greeted by my grandparents' kind, smiling faces, naive of the circumstances that landed me here in the first place. My mother opted to keep them in the dark in fear that their Christian souls would leave them horrified and unwelcoming.

"Mom, dad," my own mother said as she gave her parents a small hug of greeting. My sweet Gran hugged her tighter, "Oh, hon, I am so glad she's spending half of her gap year here with us. We'll have so much fun, and she can help out with the garden, and oh, I just can't wait!" My jovial grandpa, with his bear-like figure gave me a warm hug along with his, "It's so good to see you, darlin'! How long's it been? Two spring breaks ago, was it not?" I nodded timidly with a forced smile, as my grandpa patted my back. After a few more exchanges of greetings and small talk, along with my mother's obvious avoidance of my grandpa's questioning of my dad's lack of greeting, my mother took me to the side to give me a, "short chat before I say goodbye," as she put it, while my belongings were being taken inside.

Once my Gran and Grandpa were out of earshot, my mother looked at me sternly, with her cool eyes lacking the motherly gaze that her own mother possessed. "Kate, I hope you understand how hard it is for your dad and me to get you here. Please don't be reckless again, and please don't be a burden to your grandparents." Too tired and slightly afraid to fight back, I nodded. "I hope your stay here will teach you a lesson to never pull something like that again." A punch to the gut, those words were, mostly because of how unfair it seems, given my knowledge, and how dejected I feel because of my inability to express that injustice, but mostly because she was my mother, and she couldn't even give me the benefit of the doubt. As if those words weren't enough ammunition, she threw in, "And please, don't disappoint us anymore." Not waiting for my reply, she turned away and left, fully aware of my inability to even give any meaningful response.

I found that they took advantage of this quite often, my lack of response, and therefore, retorts to their unkind words, until I eventually became the verbal punching bag of the family, as if my silence was a sign of subordination. It wasn't. It was a sign of dignified resignation and mere disinterest. I couldn't be bothered to waste efforts trying to communicate with them. Unfortunately, I was still human, and their words still affected me, and bottling up my responses and my defense for myself didn't exactly help me as much as I had hoped. That's when I discovered the power of a cheap, ninety-leaf journal and a pen. It allowed me to vent, to organize my thoughts in a manner far more articulate than speech. It gave me the liberty to speak, a liberty my forsaken voice couldn't grant me. This notebook gave me the satisfaction of expressing my thoughts, hurtful as they can be, but still not risk saying anything I might regret to anyone later; this journal was for my eyes only, and that was the only silver lining in my cursed, muted life.