Lavender | Wakatoshi Ushijima

34 | Hollow

The funeral is what you'd expect. Tears, silence, mostly compliments. You'd be surprised how this funeral was more of a display for my family. I was getting compliments on my skin, posture, and image. None of them seemed to touch me or make me feel good about myself. 

On the contrary, I felt worse. This plastered version is not my true self. No one there knew that the Takahashi daughter loves flowers, music, poetry, and fills her days with gardening and reading. No one knew that she's struggling. Every part of her smiling appearance suggested otherwise.

I'm transparent. None of them know me as he does. He would've worn sharp clothes. We both would've looked like clowns, or at least, felt like them. He would've told me this new version of me is interesting but that he likes the old me better. Or he would've said nothing at all, who knows? 

That all faded into the abyss as the next day went by. I'm becoming invisible to everyone. I feel alone and hollow. 

I am nothing but a shell holding onto the fractures of the armor. That's what remains of me.

The team is busy with practice, even Kiyo's fading.

I submitted my poem for the competition and I plan on starting to study for my final exams. As evil as it sounds, I feel like my Mother won't find out I've lied and it'll slip away. You'd think lying is something I can let slip easily, but I'm not used to it and I stay up thinking about it, about being caught.

Both of my parents don't pay attention anyway. I've lived alone and cooked for myself for god knows how long. It would be bizarre for them to find out now. It won't make a difference.

After school, I walk straight home. I walk on my own and avoid anyone that I may come across. I put my earbuds in and float away. After the funeral, my parents are even busier than before. I know they aren't going to be home. Instead of making plans with my friends, I have to emerge into adolescence, thinking of what to cook myself, or if there's enough leftovers for my parents who could be coming home. Cleaning, gardening, writing, everything squished together makes up my life.

It's getting tiring becoming twenty-five at eighteen. 

The insecurity and misery are eating me alive. And no one seems to care. Mother won't look at me the same anymore, her gaze has been the same cold one for many years. I forgot what it used to look like. I'm not her sweet daughter, I'm a burden. A tall child who needs frequent trips to the clinic.

My friends are fading from the picture when I need them most. It's my fault, I'm not telling them anything. I'm holding myself together, but at some point, the glue bottle will run out and they'll see the parts of me shattered on the floor. But that won't happen. It won't ever happen. I won't let them find out. I'll hold it off. I'll keep my feelings out the doors of my heart. I'll shut it all out until it disappears.

I'm at the door. I put my shoes away and drag myself up into my bedroom. I get changed into baggy clothing, an oversized hoodie and sagging sweatpants. I can't bear to look at my body anymore. 

It's so slim, but I have no energy to do anything about it. Let it stay this way, I deserve it. 

I have leftovers from yesterday. Scarce, but good enough. It's barely a full bowl. I've lost my appetite. I sit by the counter as the plate spun in the microwave. Not too long ago I was standing here, cooking and dancing so vivaciously. I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know love was this cruel, or that a mind can change so quickly. It rips everything from you before you realize you've lost anything. The bowl keeps spinning and spinning.

Looks like I forgot how much time I put the bowl in the microwave. Once it beeps, I get up and open the microwave. I take out the glass bowl carelessly, but by the time it's clenched between my fingertips, I realize how sizzling it is. It grills my fingertips because I don't know how many times I pressed the thirty-second button. It's horrific, it hurts like hell.