Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

47 | Checking The Engine

LUNES
9:47 PM

Dahlia Gray

It's been a month since my father spoke to me.

And it shouldn't have hurt. It wasn't my fault—yet it was. He could've been more considerate with his approach—but he wasn't. Nothing should have hurt as much as being ignored by your own father—especially someone who you always found yourself at quarrel with—but it did.

I feel like I'm going insane.

We sat at the dining table, enjoying our dinner to the whistle of the silence. Plates clink with metal forks, glasses dong with the occasional clash. My mother made no effort to start a conversation or fill the tension, despite being the middleman to both sides. I never expected her to, and I'll never wish to add onto her emotional labor—but it's just starting to affect me worse than it has before.

This is the longest he's given me the silent treatment.

And it hurts.

I don't know why it hurts so much. I've always said I wanted to leave him, to secure a job so rich, it funds my escape from this suffocating house that once raised me and just leave—without warning, without contact. The goal had always been a vivid image, but to have the picture painted right in front of me, I began to notice the hollow spots.

It's hurting me.

I'm going insane here, because I don't know if I'm on the right side. I highlight every single thing I did wrong and try to combat my argument with logic and reasoning—but none seems to suffice. My father did ask me to file his paperwork, and he asked nicely, without any malicious intent. I failed him, and for some reason, all of his screaming and insults he threw that night didn't seem to matter. It was as if a judge is hearing the settlement in court, and it's pleading with the prosecutor.

It was my fault, and passed all the screaming and insults disguised as bullet compliments–I was in the wrong. I didn't finish his paperwork, and I made a promise to. I didn't do what he asked, and he rightfully got upset with me. I failed him, and I hurt him, and my mind is being driven to the brink of insanity over who is right and who is wrong.

But my feelings...

It wouldn't matter in court.

My father finishes his dinner and silently stands from the table, excusing himself into the kitchen. I follow right after him, despite having not even finished half of my dinner, I trail him to the sink where he drops the dirty dish and turns to meet me—brown identical eyes staring back at me.

A passive expression layers on his face, and he doesn't say anything—holding this subtle glare between the crinkles of his eyes, something that screams: I am the man of the house, the patriarch, and I will not apologize.

My lips part, and I wanted to say something, but in the five seconds he gave me, I couldn't find my tongue and my words were practically hollow. My father pushes past me, making sure to bump my shoulders on his way out—harshly, might I add—and pushes through the living room, entering his living quarters.

And I can hear my heart cracking.

I drag my feet along the wooden floorboard, taking puppy-like steps to his bedroom, feeling emotionally drained and sad the entire way there. My heart feels heavy; not in the sense of peace or tranquilly, but heavy as in hollow, empty, voided.

I jangle with the lock, silently pleading to be let in. The more the seconds tick on the clock, the more I feel like I'm losing my opportunity. To do what, I don't know exactly, but I feel as if time is slipping away from me to make amends and I'm going to live my life in the wrong.