The Man

"When did you learn how to cook ?" I asked my mother. She laughed softly and stirred the rice in the silver pot.

"The first time I cooked was when I was eleven. My dad came from work, drunk like usually. My mom wasn't at home and I had to cook alone. But I did it" she spoke with calm voice. She was grinning.

As if it was something funny to talk about. But I can't help but smile too. Her smile is contagious. I avert my gaze from her to the rice pot on the stove. I can't help but think, how could someone like her love someone like her father ? And then I think. How could I love someone like my father ? And just like my mother I can't help but smile at the memories. How he laughed at his own jokes. How he was repairing the car- he never repaired it. Or how he taught me how to float on my back on the water. To be a father is to hold this enormous power. That even his absence is a weapon. I can't tell my mother to unlove her father the same way she can't tell me to unlove mine.

"Can you set the table ?" She asks, bringing me back to my senses. I look over at her and go get the plates. I put the two plates on the table. For the only two  people in this house.

I look at the third chair that's resting under the table. Someone shouldbe sitting there. But he isn't. I remember him like a street sign. Idon't remember what it said. A blurry memory passes through my head. A onewhere I was outside with my dog. I was sitting on rocks and my dog wasswimming. A Man comes into the picture and throws a flat rock into the river.The rock bounces off the surface of the flowing creek multiple times before it sinks.And as if somethings drags me under the water along with the it, I wake upin the kitchen again. I look at my hands. Those once belonged to a child. They remindme of my father's hands. His artistic hands. Hands made forbuilding. Hands madefor breaking.

I was told I look like my mother. I like tobelieve it because everyone I meet says so. I inherited her brown hair.Her brown eyes. Her empathy and her flaring personality. I am my mother's child.But I have my father's hands. The way I walk. The way I dress. My sense ofhumour. I gulp down a certain kind of anger. A certain kind ofpain. A certain kind of sadness. There's only so much a child can bear.How long can I keep  swallowing the lumpin my throat ? How long will I be able to swallow the anger ? Doi wait until it chokes me ? I shake my head. As if I hoped all mytroubles and all my thougths would fall out and magically disappear. Or fall onto the ground so I could pick them up and throw them out. Instead of sorting them out I'm writing them here. Perhaps it will make me feel better, lighter. Maybe it will help me forget. Some things are better left forgotten.

Before I realise it and get off the train of thoughts i often get stuck on, the dinner is eaten and I am laying in my bed. It's 2 am and I am laying on my back on my creaking bed. I cannot sleep. In another universe I am out with my friends and enjoying my time. But in this universe I am drowning in my sorrow. Someone is dragging me into the pool of sorrow. The man from the house.

Next morning, the house is empty and silent. No one is home. I sit down behind my table. I grab my pencil and start drawing. Something i am actally good at. I draw a violent bloody scene with plenty of skulls. Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comforted. Famous lines of César A. Cruz and i belive in every letter said. My mind wanders back to the man. I Picture him standing over my shoulder and point out every minor mistake or thing he wouldnʼt like.

My phone rings. Speak of the devil and the devil comes. I furrow my eyebrows and take the ringing phone into my hand. I take a deep breath to resist the urge to scream. I drag the green button across my screen and a deep masculine voice speak on the other side. Then came the-

"Hi, I missed you" He said. I could hear the kindness radiate from it. Resentment grabs me by the shoulders and tells me to yell and scream. It has me in itʼs grasps. And it doesnʼt plan on letting go anytime soon. I wear my rage like a coat. I push it back.

"Hello Father" I answer monotonously "What do i own the pleasure for this call?" I sarcastically add. It was like adding fuel to the flame. Oh well.

He rambles out his monologue. I let him but i donʼt listen. I rest my face in my hand. I feel left out. Nothing new. Disappointment left me long time ago and took away my joy again. Love will never find me again. Unlucky me.

"-so i was thinking if you wanted to come over and...you know..catch up. I would love to see you again" I bite my lip harshly when i hear these words slip out. I let them float in my mind for a while. Silence lingers in the air.

"Iʼll think about it"

We say goodbyes to each other and i hang up. I sit still for a while. Staring into the depth of darkness of the empty house. Not for long, I hear the door being open. I straighten my posture. I glance at the white digits glowing on the oven. 12:42am. I stare right back at the door and to my surprise i see my mother. She is home sooner than usually. I wonder whatʼs up with that. I supress the thoughts swirling in my mind and offer her a small genuine smile. She greets me casually. Immediately as a response I tell her about my phone call so i donʼt forget. I ask for her opinion. She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She takes off her shoes and sighs.

"Of course he wants to be with you only when he wants" I stay quiet as she goes on how irresponsible my father is and how he wants to act like the perfect parental figure. Mother and father. You always wrestled inside of me. You always will.

I bit my tongue back. Do i dare to speak ? Anger burns my skin for keeping quiet and so i speak.

"So what ? At least he tries" I defend him. I defend someone i donʼt know. A stranger. I defend what i hate. But that hate is mine. It feels like home. I see my mother grunt in disapointment. I brush it off and put my cold hands into my hoodie pocket.

"You wouldnʼt understand. You are just a kid" She says and walks into the bathroom to wash her hands. I follow her.

"I am the victim. I understand the most" Venom drips from my words. I release all my pent up anger on the wrong person, something i will regret like I always do. I keep making the same mistakes. Over and over again. An infinity loop of my mistakes.

She raised her voice "Why are you always so rude ??" She shot me a glare and walked around me angrily.

"Why are you always so distant and ignorant ?" I argued back without thinking. My mouth moved faster than my mind.

"Why do we always argue when we talk ??" I can see the tears in her eyes as she yells at me and takes a few steps towards me. I grit my teeth together and clench my fists. My words get stuck in my throat.

"Are you trying to drive me insane? Or trying to guilttrip me ?" She continued witha furious expression while she choked on her tears that were streamingdown her face like a river.

"Because itʼs working" She adds. My heart beat fastens and i gulp quietly. I feel water building up in my own eyes. I try to ignore the tears in hope that they will leave. I opened my mouth to say something but i got cut off before i could say something

"Why canʼt we have a normal relationship for once ?" That breaks my heart. I clasp my mouth shut and a tear rolls down my cheek against my will. I hesitantly put my hand on her shoulder and rub it. No words need to be said. I feel the lump of anger come up  my throat. It isnʼt anger. If you look closer , it's just sadness. Sometimes things aren't as they seem. I take off her coat of rage and she hugs me. I feel her wet tears stain my shirt. I rest my chin on her shoulder and she rests her head on mine. I am my fatherʼs daughter. An unforgivable crime. I embrace this feeling. I draw a line where rage ends and forgiveness starts. One of many endings.

I think that there are no perfect endings. Perhaps infinity endings. Or maybe, once something begins, there are only endings.