Sonia
I arrived home two hours ago to find the house empty and no edible inside. The modest, two-room house was lit by a single bulb that hung from the ceiling, its faint light casting long shadows on the whitewashed walls.
The wooden furniture scratched and worn, gave the space a rustic charm, though it felt more like a reminder of the hard times than comfort.
After taking a short nap on the fraying sofa with faded flower patterns, I woke up with a mild headache and a rumbling stomach. I got some instant noodles and otc drugs at the nearby shop, which was cramped up to capacity. I ate them quietly on the wobbly table that dominated our small kitchen. I grabbed my phone, scrolling through it. Several missed calls from MJ flood my screen making my heart flutter. Did she miss me? Then like a tidal wave, memories from last night came crashing down. I froze, my hand lingering near my lips, my body betraying me with a sudden rush of need.
I had only wanted a distraction, not this whirlwind of confusion. Am I going full-on gay? The thought lingered heavy and unavoidable.
I'd always known there was a part of me attracted to women, but I never thought it ran this deep. My heart fluttered when I saw MJ’s name on the screen again. I tap on the voicemail, my heart thudding like a drum.
Her voice spilled out— cold, sharp and vile. Tears streamed down my face as I replayed her hateful words. What did I ever do to her? She was the one who kissed me, she is the one pulling me in.
I wiped my tears with the sleeves of my oversized sweater, its faded green fabric frayed at the cuffs. I couldn't let my mother see me like this. Crying over a girl.
The old TV buzzed to life as I flipped through the channels, settling on a comedy show that was doing a lousy job in cheering me up. The chipped cabinet beneath it sagged under the weight of years of neglect.
“Sonia,”my mother called, entering with a bag of groceries in her hand. Her small round frame was bundled in a kitenge dress of bold blues and yellows, her face lined with the weariness of the day.
“Mum,” I called warmth spreading through me. Her familiar face — pitch black eyes behind round glasses, high cheekbones, and a perpetually furrowed brow — always felt like home when my dad wasn't around. He took my mother away from him, and for that alone I will never forgive him.
" You have been here all day and wouldn't bother to even cook or clean?" She asked, collapsing onto the worn out couch.
" Mum, not even a hello?"
" Come here, I'm too tired to
stand up."
I crossed the room quickly, and she pulled me into a rare hug. My mother was not one to show affection, and when she did, it only left you begging for more.
" Why are your eyes red?"
This is why I hate crying when my eyes turn red and puffy.
" I had a headache."
" Oh, did you take some medicine?"
" Yes." Thumbs up to my mother to notice anything wrong with me.
She watched me closely, pushing her glasses up her nose. Her eyes were sharp, scrutinizing. Despite our identical round face, I had her sharp jawline but none of her resilience.
" You're getting slimmer are you not eating?”
I laughed slightly looking at her. " I am," I replied, trying to dismiss her worry.
" How is school?"
" School is fine, but hard."
" Nothing is easy just work hard no distractions."
If you only knew I had a bucket of distractions in the form of a human being.
" Yes mum."
" Where's dad?" I asked hurriedly changing the topic despite not caring where he was— maybe I care a little.
" I don't know,"she answers, breathing heavily. I wonder why she fights for him this much.
He is probably in a ditch somewhere passed out from drinking too much not giving a shit about her or me.
" Come help me cook."
" Okay."
After dinner — prepared amid her shouting and glares — we sat down to talk. She looked tired yet determined her hands resting on the table.
" What is the important thing you wanted to tell me?" I ask, placing the plate on the wooden table.
" It's about your father."
"What about him ?"
" He is unwell. Liver Cirrhosis," she said, her tone heavy with unspoken emotions.
"Because of his stupid drinking problem."
She narrows her eyes at me daring me to say one more thing about the love of her life.
" What now?"
" I'm searching for the hospital deposit to get him admitted."
" Why you?"
" Because I am his wife."
That's not good enough.
" No mum, he should pay for it himself; he drinks all his money while you suffer here."
"Who said I'm suffering ?" She questioned her voice firm. I clicked and barged in my room before I utter something we both might regret.
" Dare you break my door ?" I heard her shout at this delicate moment.
I retreated to my room, locking myself inside. My room was bare except the mattress that sat on one corner and a wooden desk. The peeling paints on the wall felt oppressive, a reminder of the fights and pains this house had seen. I sat on the floor, my head in my hands, the cold cement grounding me.
" Your phone is ringing," I heard my mother say after I left the living room charging.
"Who is it ?"
" MJ." I felt the knot in my chest tighten by the mention of her name.
Why is she calling me?
" Should I answer?" She asks.
" No!" Luckily my legs regained strength that my mother had managed to suck life from when she broke the news, I snatched the phone from her hand swiping to answer.
" Hello."
" I didn't think you would answer."
" It's not like I had a choice."
"What do you mean?"
"Is that all ?"
"No."
"Okay bye."
I cut the call not waiting to hear what she had to say. MJ was under my skin, in my head and everywhere I looked. I have to escape her.
YOU ARE READING
The Sweetest Fruit ( Tomboy 🏳️🌈Love Story )
Romance[18+] Sports College Romance. Cover art by@emilycatewrites
