"... And I love him. Though I hate that word, because I don't think it truly encapsulates how I really feel about him. The way I love him is not the way I love the weather, or video games, or the dog I saw on the street. But I do, love him."
In whic...
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POTENTIAL TRIGGERS: implications of emotional abuse, mental abuse, depression, trauma, implications of mild eating disorders
This chapter may be hard to read if you suffer from one or more of the triggers above, and even if you don't, please be mindful of them while reading. You are loved.
BEATRICE @busybee
I felt a plethora of emotions on the trip from the airport to my old, childhood home. The uber ride there is quick, almost too quick. In what felt like mere seconds, I was at the foot of the front stairs. The last time I had been here, I was running down these same steps while trying not to make a noise. It was almost too much for me to bare, just remembering everything.
My heart was pounding in my chest, increasing with each step as I ascended. My palms were moist and the grip on my bag was weak. I had only brought a duffle bag of things in my rush to be here.
Face-to-face with dark wood, my fist raised hesitantly and rammed against the surface. The wait was antagonizing as I stood clutching the strap of my bag, my heart beating at a concerning pace.
The door swung open and I felt my entire body freeze. Standing in front of me, only blocked by the transparent plexiglass screen door, was my seven-year-old sister — except, she wasn't seven-years-old anymore. Her short, Dora-like hair was now grown inches past her shoulders, now almost meeting her waist. Her thick bangs too, was outgrown into a fringe that began her layers. She had the same wide eyes and thick brows, the same bubble nose, the same mole on the side of her face near her eyes.
I felt the remorse slap me in the face as I truly realized how much time actually passed since I've seen her. I've missed countless birthdays, hundreds of unknown achievements. She would be graduating middle school next year, yet I've missed the entirety of her experience. I missed it all.
I don't know the little girl in front of me anymore, the small Filipina girl that I left behind because I couldn't take her with me.
Blythe Franceska Aguilera was all grown up.
I watched her eyes switch from shock to anger and her eyebrows pinched together. Her eyes watered despite the look of betrayal washed within them.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Her voice was slightly deeper now, but I still heard the small squeak that she used to yell with. "Get out."
With my eyes observing her body, my brows furrowed. No bandages, no obvious bruising, no crutches or wheelchairs. She was wearing a cropped black tank top with the word Smile! screen printed in yellow, and gray shorts. The chance of her having injuries beneath was unlikely.
And then, I realized what happened.
"You're not injured," I voiced out. My tone was shaky as I felt the nerves ricocheting around in my body. "You're okay."
