Fallen Queen

~ C H A P T E R T H R E E ~

Sixteen years ago; Achelois aged 'seven':-

I sit on the floor of my bedroom, my back against the door that is shut, yet the yelling is audible and clear all the way up here. I sit quietly, trying to drown all the other noises in my silence itself, but it's not helping. I hear the clanging of pots and pans and vulgar innuendos that are hurled from either side. I'm not supposed to hear them, let alone swear. Because swearing will get me a lot more than just a bar of soap in my mouth. Smoothly, the tears run down my cheeks like always; I chide myself for being so weak as I look at the ceiling, trying to force the tears back down and fan at them like they should disappear.

The session gets a tad intense. Now's the time I've got to do this; again. For the fourth time in six days. I open the door as discreetly and soundlessly as I can. I fish the pair of house keys I'd snagged from the center table when they'd started. It almost slips out of my hand but I catch it back right in time. I decide to remove her slippers lest they flap around the house. I don't want them to notice me; they can go on for forever as long as they get back together to normal the next morning.

Liar.

I hate it. I hate it that my parents fight. The other kids have parents who are quite in love with each other, they don't fight at least. I hate that my parents make it a point to include this in their routine, fighting about simply nothing at all.

That's what I am. A liar, and one who isn't really good at it. No, I'm not that transparent to people around me; it's just me. I always know when I'm lying; I tend to contradict myself and it hits me hard where it shouldn't. However hard I try, it just happens as if it were a reflex, a thing that is adamant enough to challenge my own stubbornness.

I tiptoe over to the balcony and for once, I'm pleased I'm skinny because the hardwood doesn't creak. It wouldn't anyway, but it's nice to pretend you don't hate your lanky body. I lock the balcony doors, and shut the windows as silently as I can. I want to shut the kitchen too, but apparently, they're going at it in the kitchen itself, because the sound of pots, pans and breaking glass is unmistakable.

I descend from the stairs and press myself to the wall, hiding myself from sight as I try to comprehend the reason for the fight this time. Usually, it's some nonsense that is avoided by people who like to waste their time, as well.

My life isn't the usual trope. My parents aren't the drinking type. They are not druggies either. No crack addicts. The reasons aren't a low pay or an affair. In fact, they're respectable people belonging to the more prosperous, educated and wealthy group in the middle class. They don't smoke. They don't physically abuse each other or me, anyways. What makes me so sad?

WHAT MAKES ME SO DEPRESSED?

I sink down, my back against the wall as I sit on the second last stair, legs outstretched. They'll sleep alone today, they'll be grumpy tomorrow. The noises in the background don't fade even if I 'need' them to. They weave themselves into the matter of the place, my body, my soul, and become a part of me itself. They're not serenade, they're harsh and cruel. I sit quietly, wondering why me of all people. Tears stain my turquoise shirt and I allow them to. Sometimes letting go is the only thing I can do to lighten the weight, because it doesn't look all that heavy, but it is.

There's the constant, nagging fear that eats at me. What if my dysfunctional family now, would turn into a broken, separate family? What if they divorce each other? These few thousands of 'what ifs' kill me every night as I try not to shout when I'm fighting a nightmare. The nights I wake up in a cold sweat in my bed are far better than the ones when I have to wake up to find myself shouting. My parents don't know; they never do. They think 'fighting' is a part of life; only that it isn't. Not especially when your eight year old child understands and still thinks it's bullshit they're quarreling about.