Creative Writing Assignments

Between the Lines

"Who am I? Who am I trying to be?
Not myself, anyone but myself.
Living in a fantasy to bury the reality,
Making myself the mystery,
A strong facade disguising the misery."
Cara Delvigne

I can't stop reading that line. It reminds me of myself. I feel like this poem is about me. It's only half of the full thing, but it feels complete to me. I've been sitting in my room reading this poem for two hours. The room looks the same way it did when I started. It's pitch dark and smells like cheap, dollar store perfume. Light from the sun is trying to peak in from behind the curtains, but they are blocking it out like a labyrinth wall. As I look around, I remember why I ended up here. The house is silent now. I guess Dad must have stormed out. If that's true, then Mom is most likely in the shower calming down. Issac is probably asleep, like every 4-year-old should be at 11:30 at night. That thought saddened me. Issac is only 4. He doesn't understand things the way I do. I understand that even before he was born there was tension between our parents. I knew they weren't the perfect couple that everyone thinks they are. I knew. I knew when I was 9. I'm 16 now.
Issac is a cheerful young boy. He's a total momma's boy too. To be honest that's probably more a result of moms reluctance to leave him alone with our father, rather than genuine attachment. His alcohol problem has caused my mom to lose trust in his passiveness. Issac is oblivious to any turmoil. He thinks dad is never around because of work. In reality, he's not around because he's always at the bar with his buddies. I know he loves our parents. I know he doesn't see the things I see, but that doesn't silence the thoughts in my head that say he should.
I still haven't left my room. I'm scared of the alternative result of my parents' fight. That being my dad sitting on the living room couch drinking a can of beer, definitely not his first, and my mom lying in her room crying. I don't want to see that. I don't want to think about that. If I hear her cries and see his drunken expression, I might break. The darkness of my bedroom provides a safe haven. I can hide from my sadness. I can hide from the state of my family. I can hide away from my endless thoughts about suicide. I can hide from everyone and everything.
The silence is becoming suffocating. It's not calm. It's an eerie silence you would hear in the climax of a horror movie. The kind of silence that feels like it's warning you something bad is about to happen. For the first time in 2 and a half hours, I creeped open my door. The scene in front of me is one of night terrors. Our family living room is turned upside down. It looked as if someone had ransacked the place searching for something, but hadn't found it. Pillows litter the floor, our table decorations lay in pieces, and our tv is off its protective stand. Little specks of red are scattered across the kitchen tile that bleeds into the living room carpet. I stared. I stared horrified at the state of the house I grew up in. Everyone's life is unfair, but my life is unforgiving.
My mom's bedroom is upstairs, third door on the left. It took me 5 minutes to recover from the shock I felt when I saw the living room. The images of the red spots that painted  our kitchen floor haunt my mind. I needed to see my mom. I needed to know that she was ok. Physically-I mean. No one could possibly be mentally and emotionally ok after what she's been through. Knocking on her bedroom door feels like an impossible challenge. I haven't stepped foot inside since I was 11 when my parents fighting like this became a regular occurrence. On my way here I walked past Issac's room. I peered inside and soaked up the cleansing spirit inside. His room is filled head to toe with puppies and other cute animals. He's always loved animals. His room reminds me of my youth. Part of it. It reminds me of the years before my ninth birthday. Before I became aware of my parent's distaste for one another. Issac means the world to me. That's why I may never have the heart to tell him he was a final attempt at saving my mothers' relationship with my father. I remember the day they told me they were having a baby. I was 12, well aware of their marital problems by then. I vividly remember asking for a little sister back then. How times change. At least back then my parents were still sleeping in the same room.

Just knock. It's not hard. Just knock...

I can't do it. I can't knock on her door. I can't face her. I can't see her tear ridden, possibly beaten face. I just can't. I don't know what is stopping me. I don't know what to do.

I'm back to sitting in my darkened room. Nothing about the scenery has changed. All I can think about is what my life has become and how much the tension in my home has affected me. I've become guarded. I've built walls not even I can knock down. I guess that explains why Lillian left. I think about the many years we were best friends for and what has come of them. Loneliness did, I guess. I can remember her saying to me, "Ally, we are gonna be friends forever!" That sentiment seems so unattainable now. I miss her. I miss the openness we had in our relationship that I betrayed. I miss everything I used to have. I know I'll never get it back. After all...


"My smile hides my tears.
My laugh hides my screams.
It's been this way for years.
Things aren't as they seem."
-Sanju Roy