the art of

seven » excuses

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."