Storyteller | JHS ✓

Chapter eleven; So Far Away

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ꜱᴏ ꜰᴀʀ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ɪꜰ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜰʟʏɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

ɪꜰ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜰʟʏɪɴɢ ᴀᴡᴀʏ

╰─────────────────°•*̑˟̑ෆ╯

___

I quickly ducked out of sight before Mr. Kim saw me. But I'm sure he knew, he always knew, like a priest who perceived all your sins.

The waxing crescent moon hung low in the night sky, making me believe I could seize it in my fingers if I strained far enough. But like my dreams, both the moon and the stars evaded me.

'That's alright,' I thought, 'I have the sun.'

But the way home never seemed more lonely.

___

Both my insides and my feet froze when my house came into view. Contemplating and fidgeting for what seemed like hours (and when the lone bench at the park seemed more than inviting), the front door opened, revealing my mother.

The look upon her face was not anywhere near welcoming or an expression that indicated any sense of happiness. I considered making a beeline for the park bench.

"You know," she started off--the calm before the storm, "Your sister stayed out late too. But it was to pursue her dreams of being a journalist. I don't see you working endlessly on your aspirations."

I've seen this all too many times before: she first talks of my sister--usually in a positive way--then gets right to the core of our arguments. At that moment, I realized my mother was a lot like Isabel. She begins to talk of saccharine achievements, then throws insults one after another.

"Tell me. What are your aspirations?"

"...I don't know."

A vein sprouted from my mother's temple in anger, "You don't know? You're in your second year of college, and you don't know? Your sister knew what she wanted to do the day she started highschool! If you even don't have goals then why are you staying out so late? Why can't you just make me happy? Why don't you ever try?"

I thought of all the suffocating moments around her, the look of pure venom in her gaze as she scrutinized my entire being whenever I was around. How her brows furrowed whenever she glanced at me. It seemed like the only thing in the way of her happiness was me.

But there was no way I was going to tell her that.

Biting my tongue, a string of unsatisfying words came out of my mouth, "I did try, Mother! I tried!"

I remember furiously studying for a test until my mind blurred the line between my name and that of my friend's dog's, only to get incorrect marks in return. How others threw careless glances and made dull remarks on artwork that I worked hours on end.

She scoffs, "Maybe go take another look at the dictionary? I don't think the definition of 'trying' includes staying out late."

I knew she was being bitter. I knew I was being bitter as well. But reader, you have to understand: it was difficult. I couldn't convey my thoughts outside my head no matter how much I tried. It was as if there was a barrier in my throat, preventing the words from coming out.