Ever so slowly, I lowered my mouth to the lime. As I did so, I felt the brush of her lips on mine.
Just a touch. Just a breath, and it ignited fire in my veins.
And at that moment, I forgot a lot. My heart stopped, my breathing quit, my thoughts cea...
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Insomnia had plagued me since I was young.
The tendrils of sleep had always curled around my mind, toyed with my eyes, but never fully allowed me to grasp it.
Of course, I was constantly fatigued. However, it was especially late in the night, around midnight, when I wished more than anything else that I could simply sleep.
I first heard the hiss from my mother's mouth. It was followed by a louder response, from my father, which evolved into screams.
"You're selfish!" my mother spat. "You're a worthless jerk! You don't care about your children." Her voice was still muffled by the doors that separated us, but she was saying it loud enough that I could still hear.
"That's not true, and you know it!"
"Where do you go every Friday and Saturday night, then? When I'm stuck with the kids almost all weekend and you disappear off to... god knows where?"
"I already told you," my father hissed. "I have work conferences."
"Conferences, my ass!" she screamed.
The first night I heard my parents fight, I wanted to intervene. I had tried, knocking on the door with my small fist and asking them what was wrong.
I still remember how my mother's face was tear-stained, but she quickly wiped it away, as if I didn't already see. She assured me that everything was fine and that I should go back to sleep, unaware that I never slept.
Now, the shouting was routine. Every night, after they put us to bed, they would go into the room. Everything would be fine for an hour, and then the shouting would ensue.
My brother never woke up to their fights. At least, it never seemed like it. I never heard his door creak open, never heard him shift in the other room. To my knowledge, he was blissfully unaware that our mother had almost hired a lawyer to file a divorce to my father.
Me, on the other hand... I was aware. I knew every detail of their relationship, every crack in their facade. I knew every secret they try to keep sealed inside tight lips, every word that gets thrown to the other every night. I knew about their growing hatred for one another; a type of hatred that they spun onto me.
My mother's exhaustion no doubt led to the anger that she portrayed onto me every morning before school. She would yell at me, saying that I was well behind my brother. I needed to catch up, otherwise I'd go nowhere in life.
But I never resented her. Even though I wanted to, I knew that her anger was only a reflection of her relationship with my father. I knew she loved me, despite the words she called me.
