Echos

Part 2: Kismet - Sage

I want to scream

Scream at the top of my lungs,

So hard that my throat burns

I want to scream away my anger and sadness

My confusion and loneliness

I want to scream.

But I don't want anyone to

Hear me.

Scream so hard that I can no longer speak

So hard that I

Don't have to speak anymore

I keep my screams in,

Like a tiny firecracker

in a glass bottle,

Ricocheting off the walls, cracking them

Ever so slightly.

But these glass walls won't hold

Forever

I want to scream so loud

That the glass shatters.

***

My whole life, I've dreamed about running away.

I would daydream in class, or any chance I got, really. I yearned for the freedom–to be who I am, to love who I want, to dress how I want. The freedom to be creative and expressive, to be in control of my own life. I imagined myself at peace, at one with myself and nature and the universe. I imagined I'd be happy.

For a really long time, that dream was the only thing keeping me alive.

The concept of "home" became really foreign to me, as did the concept of love. For as long as I can remember, I haven't felt 'at home' or even safe in the place I was forced to live. That green house, which was once full of life, has also suffered the punishment of time, and you can feel that energy as soon as you walk through the front door.

I miss the times when all my extended Guyanese family would come over to share stories and laughs over pepper pot or BJ's birthday cake. I miss playing dress up or manhunt with my cousins, the only real 'friends' I had growing up.

Eventually, time moved on, everyone grew older, and we all grew apart. My brothers, who were much older than me, moved out and started lives and families of their own.

By the time I got old enough to understand the reality and inevitability of death, my mom died. Which left me alone in the house-and the world-with just my cat and my father. Only my cat loves me. And my father... Well, my father is an emotionally-absent-yet-emotionally-abusive-alcoholic-narcissist that desperately needs therapy. With everyone gone (and no witnesses in the house), I became the default punching bag, and he got really good at taking his feelings out on me. It got so bad that I started to scream back, which never ends well for me. I couldn't take it anymore.

So I did it.

It was an act of impulse, or maybe intuition, or maybe a bit of mania but I fucking did it.

In a daze, I grabbed the sturdiest backpack I could find and reached for items as they popped into my head. I snatched my laptop off of the floor and packed it into the bag with its charger. I rummaged through my closet and drawers, pulling out random t-shirts, my lucky crewneck sweater, socks, underwear, and a pair of sweatpants. I wrapped my camera up in the clothes and stuffed everything into the bag.