Everything I Never Say ✓

[ eight ]

Eight

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I was ten, two years and a few months past officially becoming a member of your family, when that damned mask made a reappearance.

You know, that awful Scream mask which pumped awful blood-like liquid.

It was one of those nights, again, where your—our— aunts and uncles and cousins gathered at your —our—place.

Occasions like those were the only times that long dining table was used; the one with curved edges and a glass covering on the top which showed off the colourful pebbles arranged in neat little squares underneath.

It also had one of those spinning, circular-like trays fitted in the centre—the kind that allowed you to place the side dishes on it so that it was much easier to serve instead of having to pass the dish around. Years later, almost an adult now, and I still have no idea what they're called.

The Harrington home was so full of life that night, the conversations so loud and filling up every inch of the house. I happened to appreciate the noise that night; I had my moments, just like you, where I sometimes preferred the quiet and sometimes liked the liveliness. It was the latter for me that night.

It was the latter for you too that night, that much I know. What happened later was proof enough.

Everyone had just finished dinner, and I was slouching in my seat, beyond satisfied with the meal. A few of the seats were vacant, including yours, but most of your—our—relatives still remained around the dining table, cracking jokes and exchanging banter.

I wasn't worried about your whereabouts, of course; I've always known you weren't (and probably still aren't) the type to linger around for post-meal conversations. You know, the kind of mindless chatter which arises from the laziness that often accompanies heavy meals.

So it was surprising, really, when you reentered the dining room and fixed your eyes on me. I mean, that's why I felt a tiny jolt in my chest, right? Because I was surprised to see you walk into a crowded place when I know you really disliked (and probably still dislike) big crowds in your own home.

Surprise. That was it. That had to be the cause of such an unfamiliar and unwanted feeling in my chest.

"Debbie," you called, lifting your hand and beckoning me over. "Come on, I need to show you something."

I swallowed, staring at you because for a moment there, I felt at a complete loss. You were willingly calling me to come with you? There was something you believed I needed to see?

"Okay," I replied in a flat tone, sliding off the chair and taking bored steps towards you.

I was ten, Daniel. A kid. I was not supposed to feel jolts in my chest. I was not supposed to feel this irrational need to contain my excitement or pretend to be bored and indifferent around you.

But I had felt compelled to do just that back then.

And back then, I didn't understand. Not understanding what I was feeling and then growing confused at myself for the way I reacted towards these alarming emotions—having to deal with that at such an innocent age—it turned me into an angry kid. I was always snapping, losing my temper and patience, growing irritated and frustrated when things don't go my way or I don't have control over the situation.

I suppose that was what eventually made me grow up wanting control—needing to be in charge of things. Of situations. Of feelings. I've become quite the control freak now, haven't I?