SPEAK

Chapter 1: My broken home

For years, I clung to the illusion that I'd be okay. That I'd be fine on my own, I held onto that pride for years and years. I thought I was happy that way, but in the end, I'm still searching for something. Warmth, Friendship, Love, and a Voice.

Let's rewind the clock to a few years, where everything started, how I was lost and confused in a room filled with faces I labeled as friends and family, and how I found myself adrift, grappling with echoes of my silence.

"You are a bitch just like your mother," his venomous words spat like fire, punctuated as his hard rough palm slapped across my already swollen cheeks. Through tear-blurred vision, I glimpsed my mother's trembling form, her silent anguish mirroring my own.

Argh, Fuck that memory. Let's just start from the genesis of my journey.

I was once happy, content, cocooned in the warm, fluid embrace of my private primordial pool. But one day, a rift beyond my control tore open my sanctuary, and I found myself repeatedly crushed in the relentless, contracting vise of my mother, Danica's, cruel cervix. For three consecutive days, I fought valiantly, each wave of pressure threatening to break my resolve. Exhausted and defeated, I emerged into the harsh, glaring light of an unfamiliar world, my cries echoing my despair. The moment my wails ceased, I was struck by a poignant realization: my haven was gone, and my choices were no longer my own.

"Why is her hair white?" my father asked the doctor, his eyes sparkling with the purest form of joy as he looked at me.

"Hair color in babies is primarily determined by genetics," the doctor explained. "It's not uncommon for babies to be born with white or very light hair. This variation is entirely normal and doesn't necessarily indicate any underlying health issues. Hair color can also change as the baby grows and their hair pigmentation matures over time."

But my hair didn't change.

At first, everyone admired the ethereal beauty of my snowy locks, a striking contrast that drew gasps of wonder. However, as time passed and my hair remained white, admiration turned into suspicion. The curious glances turned into irritable stares, even from my father. Suddenly, a middle-class childhood unfolded in Reno, Nevada.

He took me to the hospital where they diagnosed me with congenital poliosis. It was rarer in my case because my entire scalp and hair were white, unlike others who typically have just a few patches. My father, consumed by doubt, convinced himself that I wasn't his child.

Of course, I couldn't have been his child. I had white hair; he had black hair. He didn't know anyone in his family who had this condition. My mother, a beautiful brown-skinned woman, came from a lineage where such a trait was unheard of, almost impossible.

I mean, it isn't rocket science, after all. The logic was as clear as day to him.

When the DNA test results confirmed that I was indeed his, a part of me wished they hadn't.

Life grew more complicated after my mother had another child, my brother, Ivor. My father didn't even show up for his birth, citing that he was 'too busy.'

Don't get this wrong, my father wasn't always a heartless man. His coldness didn't stem from the color of my hair alone; that wouldn't make sense. Something deeper changed him, something I still struggle to understand.

On a windy night, after my mother had tucked Ivor and me in, I lay quietly, waiting for the house to settle. I opened my eyes and traced the lines and shapes that formed my ceiling, finding comfort in their patterns.

The rhythmic ticking of the clock mixed with the sound of the wind outside. My mother's humming drifted through the cracks in the door, her off-key melody making me giggle softly. The warmth of the bed contrasted sharply with the chill of the wooden floor as I slipped out from under the covers. I still remember the coolness against my feet and the fresh, earthy scent that hung in the air, a prelude to the impending rain.

I peered into the living room. There, under the dim light, my mother sat, a tear glistening on her cheek before she hastily brushed it away. Her senses were sharp; she noticed me immediately.

"Asha... come here," she called softly. Her voice, though tinged with sadness, held a comforting warmth. I padded over to her, the floor creaking under my weight, and climbed into her lap, nestling close. I pretended not to have seen her tears, I understood she didn't want me to see her cry.

***

I slowly opened my eyes, my small hands pushing my body off the couch. In the dim light, I saw my mother standing in front of my dad. They were arguing. Again.

"Dad?" I whispered. My mother turned towards me sharply, a smile plastered on her face. I wished she didn't have to smile so much; nothing about this deserved a smile. Smiles were for happiness, and my mother wasn't happy.

"Please, go into your room, sleep, and don't come out," she whispered, her smile a mask that I wanted to tear away. I hated that she had to be fake for me, trying to soothe me while hurting herself.

I knew what was coming next. I walked away but didn't go to my room. Instead, I stayed in the hallway, hiding where I could still see them. I heard their voices rising.

"Oren... please, the children are sleeping," my mother pleaded, tears streaming down her face. I knew how this would end.

It always ended like this.

He hit her, again and again, each blow a jarring slap that echoed through the room. Tears fell from her eyes as she covered her mouth, trying not to wake us. I flinched every time his hand connected with her.

"Don't fucking talk to me in that tone!" my father yelled, his rage boiling over. He seemed even angrier that she didn't scream out in pain. You know what I said before about him not being heartless from the beginning? Scrap that. He was a monster.

Each strike felt like it landed on me too, carving deep scars of fear and helplessness. Watching my mother endure this was a trauma that etched itself into my soul, a haunting reminder of the nightmare that was my reality.

I walked away slowly into my room and crawled into bed, hugging my legs. It had always been like this. I never questioned it.

I waited for things to quiet down before creeping back to the living room. I found my mother on the floor, bruised and broken. I lay down next to her in the silent aftermath. She said nothing, her pain-filled eyes staring blankly ahead.

"I never want to get married," I whispered. She didn't respond, likely too consumed by pain to speak. She gently moved the hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear, and kissed my cheek. If my heart ached this much, how unbearable must her physical, mental, and emotional agony be?

A warm drop fell on my face. I turned to see my mother crying, the first time she let me witness her tears. She must be in so much pain. I hugged her tightly, feeling her silent sobs, and eventually drifted into a troubled sleep.

***
After that night, my father went on a business trip. It seemed strange, but my mother didn't question it. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. My mother still hadn't heard from him, and she feared the worst.

She went to his family, but they claimed they didn't know where he was. Their odd calmness was unsettling; they never liked her, but their son was missing-shouldn't they be worried? Desperation led her to involve the police. A search team was formed, but they found nothing.

Exactly six months later, I heard my father's car horn and yelled, "Dad!" I rushed outside, my heart pounding. But he wasn't coming home. I saw him down the street, getting into his car with a woman and a baby. That woman looked familiar. Oh, I knew her-she was a friend of my mother's, someone my mother treated like a sister.

I watched as he drove off, without even a hello or a goodbye, pretending he didn't see me even though our eyes met. My small brain understood everything. I turned around, tears streaming down my face, and saw my mother standing there.

She had seen it too.

I wiped my cheeks, trying to be strong for her. If I felt this hurt, how much more was she hurting? But my mother just went inside and continued the day like nothing had happened.

You might wonder how old I was. Honestly, I don't remember. The years between four and twelve are a blur, filled with memories I fought to forget. All I knew was that the world moved fast and my mind even faster, leaving me in a hard and lonely place.