I stared up at the ceiling, watching the lamp's light give off strange shadows of crooked edges and patterns across the tinted white canvas. My throat locked down, shut off all intentions of allowing me to throw syllables into the air, cutting off any supply of my own ability to express my emotions, tugging at the edges of my smile till a frown appeared ever so gracefully. My fingers clutched the bed sheet as the voices drummed on the walls.
Why won't you speak? You think that this will make me stop? Are you stupid? I will do whatever the hell I want to. I will talk to whomever I want to. I will drink whenever I want to. I will do whatever I want to. Whatever. I. Want. To. You're absolutely nothing to me. Nothing. A speck of dust is worth more than this pitiful life of yours. Don't you get it? You are nothing. Do you want to leave? Go right ahead, but let me do this first.
Smack, grab, scream, tug, scream, bruise, scream, sobs of misery.
"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you," I muttered under my breath as I pulled the covers closer to my body. A tear started to slip out of my tear ducts, whisking down my face as if it were sliding down smooth snow, not minding my imperfections and bumps.
Silence.
Footsteps thumped down the hallway as the throaty sobs echoed from afar. Frantically, I flipped over to my stomach and buried my face into the pillow, pretending that the goddess of sleep had flicked her power onto me. I heard his voice claw the door as he whispered, "I know you're awake. Let this be a lesson to you too. I'm the head of this family. Whatever I say is what happens."
He drove away into the shadows as the night kissed his drunken state. The next morning he was in his bed, soundly asleep as Mother wore a sweater to cover up any traces of hatred on her. The sun sang loudly till every note in its rays touched every inch of the city but that didn't matter, she still wore a sweater.
Her eyes were puffed up and her fingers shook but she didn't shed another tear ever again, not the time where he grabbed her in front of little Charlie, not the time where he sat far away from her at dinner, not ever. She began to mutter after him. One day, fate will cut your throat. One day, God will teach you a painful lesson. You sick disgusting fool. One day, I'll leave. You'll never be with anyone better than me. You alcoholic deadbeat excuse of a man. One day.
Mother started to take everything, all of the pain and torment she felt, on us, my brother and me. She would scream when we would laugh or smile, hating the sound of happiness near her. She would pound the dough instead of gently kneading it. She would grab her hair and yell out to the world that she wanted to die. She began to pray to God: please take away my soul. A sudden powerful urge to push everyone away, including us, suffocated her body. It slapped her in the face for giving away chances as if she was tossing bread crumbs to birds at a lake. Once, fine, twice, okay, third, last one―seventh, thirteenth, twentieth, it's pointless.
"Do you need help with that?" I asked her one day when she was folding the laundry. "I just finished homework."
"No, leave me alone. Why do you always have to be everywhere?" She retorted, the venom sweeping itself underneath the sleeves of a shirt.
"I was just trying to help.."
"Help someone else."
And that's how most of the conversations went by; soon, it expanded into me being officially a messenger.
"Tell your Mother to clear the table."
"Go tell your Father to go buy milk."
"Tell her to cut the watermelon."
"Tell him to stop being a drinking idiot."
"Tell her that I hate her."
"Tell him that I wish he would go to hell."
They fed me with their hatred of one another. They exposed that true love results in nothing. They taught me that true love can only exist in Disney movies and that's it. Love can never last when there isn't a fairy godmother to wave her wand and fix anything. Love can never last when you pray to a man upstairs who watches as the war unfolds in front of a young child's eyes. Love can never last.
I did feel connections with people as the time I spent in this world got longer, older. I did feel a string that tied our wrists together and when we ran farther apart from one another, the string got weaker from holding us together and when it finally snapped, I realized that love can never last and that my parents were always right.
I realized that my weight matters more to the people who talk about it rather than it does to me. I realized that they were right: I was overweight and miserably ugly. I realized that their opinions always had a place in my mind and my surroundings, whether they were buried with the rest of the dark thoughts or if they were nailed on the walls for everyone to see. I realized that no matter how hard I tried to shed the pounds or how little I ate, they would always have a dark cloud sent my way. I realized that no matter how much makeup can be brushed onto my face that my true hideous reflection can never be cloaked. I realized that surgery can be my best friend. Maybe getting a rhinoplasty will put a rest on the taunts. Maybe liposuction will help me find someone who will stay in my life. Maybe.
Correction: I realized that they were pressuring me to become an unexisting form of perfection and I didn't say a word as they continued to.
There were days where everything crumbled right through my fingertips as if my life was a sandcastle that got stomped on by a giant. One particular day stood out from all of the other nightmares. The sun decided that it was its day to shine in a city smothered by the fog. The sun slapped away the fog and shone its truest colors. The thermometer spiked up in a matter of minutes and everyone turned to ice cream trucks. While the city smiled and spun underneath the sun, my family hid in their own little caves around the house. I sat on my bed with my favorite cup of homemade juice and began to type away on the laptop as Lana Del Rey sang so beautifully in the background. It was utter bliss; the struggles and pain drowned away as her voice echoed across the walls. Yet that was too good to be true. Her voice was growing loudly, trying its best to block out the screams next door. I slowly turned down the volume to hear that the monster had come out of its cave. I heard him grab Mother's burned hand and scream the loudest he ever has. My younger brother shook in his stance; his legs barely supported him as fear took over him. He yelled at how he is the greatest man alive, who won't let anyone, especially her, treat him like this. He can do whatever the hell he wants, repeat, repeat, repeat some more.
Then his footsteps headed towards my room as my hands began to shake with every letter I typed into the screen. He broke the door open and yelled at me to go downstairs. I muttered fine and headed over to see the family at its seams. He forced me to sit down at the table as he went on about how this is not a family. Then he started slamming the table against the walls, breaking the plates and the little ornaments on the table. His drink fell to the ground, not shattering―of course, he wouldn't dare to break his bottles. And the horrible thing is? He didn't bother picking anything else up but his drink. He didn't pick up the shards of glass, didn't pick up the food spilled, didn't pick up anything but his stupid bottle of wine. I never addressed him as Father, Dad, or Papa. Why should I? He hasn't given me a reason to. I stayed strong and didn't let a tiny tear slip as I cleaned up after his mess. Mother went to get a wet towel and had to cross him in the hallway to get to it. He pushed her away from him as if she would want to be near him. As if.
When everything settled down, Mother went to iron clothes to keep herself busy while he sat us down and gave us an unnecessary lecture, trying to prove that he is a good guy. Throughout the time that words spewed out of his ugly dark soul, my mind fluttered with profanities and I prayed that God would serve justice, just this once.
"Every day, from now on, you will come to greet me when I come home, ask me how I am, and then sit down at the table. Eat. Talk. And then go. That is what you will do from now on. If you don't, I will throw you out of this house. Understand?"
I nodded―silent, no response to give him. I didn't even stare into his monstrous eyes, scared that what I will see will haunt me forever. Why doesn't Mother divorce him? Why has she let this go on for so long? Anything, absolutely anything, is better than this.
"Everything that I have done is for you and for your brother." He patted my arm. I wanted to scream don't touch me! but I couldn't or else he would throw his daughter 'out of this house'. I wanted to grab him and shake him, yell out to the world that drinking is not something that my brother and I want. That our lungs are not filled with smoke because we needed that.
"What do you want to be when you finish school? We don't talk anymore. What a great opportunity to talk now, right?" Are you kidding me? You just broke the plates, almost beat up my Mother, and now you want to talk about the future? What future? Do you think you'll be in it? Surely, that's a no.
"I don't know." I mustered out, digging my nails into my hands. Control yourself, please.
"How could you not know? Yeah, I was like you too. I didn't know what I wanted to be until I was in my twenties." He poured himself another glass of wine.
But the thing is―you're not like me. We are absolutely nothing alike. You drink, smoke, hurt others, and during all of that, you think that you deserve to be respected. I hate people who do that.
"I just don't know." My voice cracked and the tears poured themselves out of my eyes as I begged them to stop. Please, stop crying. Please! I realized that during my whole life, I was in survival mode. I was trying to survive this life of mine, always thinking of what to say and what to do in order to avoid confrontation. Here, I was being confronted. I broke down and loathed the moment I did. I never thought of what I want to do. I would always think: get good grades, get a job, and then leave. I never thought of: what job? What passion do I have to pursue?
"Why are you crying? I told you to never cry. Look, son, look at your sister. This is what boys are not allowed to do. Crying is for the weak. I don't want you to ever cry, understand?" My brother nodded as his bottom lip twitched. He was using all of his strength to hold him back from crying.
"Stop crying!" He yelled and slammed his hand on the table as I choked back all of my tears, letting me suffocate my soul. "Better."
Yeah, better for you. Now, you don't have to hear all of the pain you have placed on me. Of all the times, I was a messenger, no one would bother to ask, do you even want to be a messenger?
His voice continued to buzz in the background as my eyes focused on the television screen; I hated every sound that came out of his mouth. It was the worst song ever written and dared to be said. The slurs created a horrible rhythm and the lack of authenticity tore the song in half. Out of the blue, seeing how horrible the night was going to end, he announced that we were all going bike riding. He grabbed his jacket, and almost fell as the alcohol intoxicated his motor skills. My brother jumped up, feeling a burst of happiness jolt his spirits, completely ignoring what just happened. He proved that he was naive, but what can I expect―he's a child.
I dug my teeth into my bottom lip as I slowly got up and put my shoes on. The door opened and my Aunty came inside as I forced a fake smile on my face. I looked over to Mother and prayed that she would tell her sister everything and that she could help her divorce this evil excuse of a man. I sighed and got onto my bike and we rode down the streets to Land's End. I looked behind to see him stumble as the alcohol spun his mind at the speed of lighting. That's how dumb he is. He's intoxicated and he knows he is but he is still willing to prove that he is a good man. Actions speak so loudly, more than any words ever can.
"Here take my picture here. And we'll go so we can take pictures over there. I need it for my profile."
Of course, you do. You need to show the world that your life is perfectly fine while it's really ripping apart. Reputation is such a horrible disease.
When the night began to envelop the city, my brother and I rode back home while he walked behind us. Our house was at least ten blocks away, but since San Francisco is known for its outstanding hills, it took forever. Around eight, we got home and the first thing I did was to see if Mother was home. She was. Why.
Aunty came out of the shower and glanced over at Mother, giving me a tiny piece of hope that maybe she told her. There was no reaction between each other as she waved goodbye and went off to work.
The next morning, my brother jumped up and down at the sight of me. "Wasn't yesterday so much fun?"
"Mhm." Yesterday was an excuse, love, yesterday was an excuse for the troubles to come.