The Flowers He Gave Me |Kim Namjoon|

03. spinning on ice

– spinning on ice –

FRIDAYS CANNOT COME QUICK ENOUGH. I count the days off, staring at whatever's before me, forgetting about all insults echoing through the hallways of my family's house. It's a constant battle as I try not to get between any of the silent glaring between my parents when enough words have been yelled.

On Wednesday, my mother and I spend our afternoon together, walking through the rows of threes, listening to the chord of nature. She needs a rest of the fight as much as I do. I can see it in the darkness underneath her weak eyes, in the hollowness in her once so bright irises. She isn't the bright sun she once was. Nothing is as it once was.

When our limbs are too fatigued to go deeper into the wonders of the forest, my mother spreads out a blanket. The cloth flies through the air, then lands on top of the glistening grass. With a deep, restless sigh, my mother crouches down, then lets her back rest on the blanket. She spreads her limbs, trying to connect to the certain calmness of nature.

I know not to say anything. She needs time to let the chirping of the birds and the song of the wind to suck up all of her worries. She needs to forget, even if it is for only a few minutes. Just like her, I crouch down on the blanket, though I don't go to lay down directly next to her, too much in awe of the view of the figures the clouds make. I stare at nothing and everything.

Mom closes her eyes slowly, as if she's drifting off. I hope she is, for a moment, escaping to another planet, one without my father on it. One where she never has to feel imprisoned again.

"He was a good husband once." Her bottom lip quivers. I blink, unknowing what to say. I suspect he was–before I began realizing the loud screams indicated fights. Before I was aware of the impact of the insults thrown at one another. "He was young, kind, hopeful. Dangerous," she adds in a whisper.

Now I do go to lay next to her, my fingers brushing hers softly. It's only a small gesture to me, but she lets out a relieved exhale. Her daughter is not mad at her, not even in the slightest.

"Maybe that's what got me into this mess–the mystery in his veins," she continues. "I was intrigued to the fact that there's always a human part that no one knows about, only the soul inside."

"You unraveled the mystery of Dad?" I croak weakly. Throughout the whole walk, we did not speak. No words were given, no explanation of why we were leaving the house and the chaos it brings with it.

"Yes," she breathes. I turn my face while Mom her eyes are glued on the moving clouds above us. Her chest rises and falls. Her eyes close and open again. Then, they don't. They remain perfectly closed as she admits, "I wish I hadn't. I wish I'd married a man your grandmother found proper enough for me."

I feel my lungs shrink. They freeze, then, the moment I bite part of my lip harshly. While my mother does lie to get her part of honest freedom, my father is the true monster, having had more affairs than I can count on my hands. And my mother always found out. The man did not care.

Hot tears pool at the edges of my eyes, ready to make their way down the still dry skin of my cheeks. Mom isn't staying here for anything or anyone else than me. Her life's not like mine; she doesn't have a friend group to invite to her house; doesn't dare to go outside of her own house often with husband's eyes everywhere.

"I'm sorry." My voice shakes. My heart hurts with the realization of having done all of this to her for years. It was I who put her through all of those years of constant pain. It was me and no one else.

Her head has never turned quicker than it does now. A look imprinted with worry, she stares bewilderedly at me. The lone tear upon my cheek is the first thing she notices. "Why are you apologizing?"