a walk through memories

a hell of a woman

The silence I was surprisingly allowed to enjoy was soon defeated by the thuds and shouts of my 'dad', followed by more yelling and flying objects from my 'mum'. All of a sudden, the kitchen door slammed open and in came a green-eyed, blonde lady whose head was just ten centimeters under the ceiling, wearing a pink, fluffy apron, carrying all kinds of gross mixtures of food stuck to it.

 Due to her unnecessarily aggressive entrance, the dishes on the wall threatened to fall as they shook, the toaster ringed as if it had agreed to make noise with the coffee maker's brewing and water steaming. "God" I thought "Just one, just one soothing morning, that's all I ask for."

And the trouble began.

Anguished, she found someone to blame for her anger. Her 'daughter'. I watched astonished how she turned her head from one end of the kitchen table to another, clearly looking for something. Then it clicked. Then I knew I was done. The reports.

 Her eyes were open wide, as she delicately lifted the first page, revealing a reflection of everything I'll ever be; never enough. She grabbed them carefully, not wanting to scratch or spoil her new, posh Barbie nails, despite not earning enough for that kind of luxury. Her predatory, feline eyes steadily targeted me. And the last phrase I decided to hear was: "A B?!". Adrenaline raced through my veins as panic hit me. I felt how sweat drops raced down the side of my face as my eyes filmed her expression deliberately: her perfectly done eyebrows covered completely the inner corner of both her eyes, her sharp nose looked like a lion's, more wrinkles than I could count covered her forehead, and unlike mine, her veins flowed full of power and greediness.

Cowed, I moved my head and chest as hard as I could against the back of the chair and grabbed its handles as if they were made of gold. And that was when she looked back down at the table, stared at a half eaten omelette, laying indifferently on a basic plate and proceeded to grab it with her right hand."She's lost it." I concluded. Because my mother, never my mum, the person who was supposed to love me the most, walked to the door and peaked through it, still flaming in anger she slowly lifted the arm holding my plate and uttered while gritting teeth: "You know, the day you were born was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Turns out, it was the day it ended." All her muscles worked at once, using all the strength she could muster, she contracted her arm and let it go, acting as a slingshot. My heart stopped and my eyes widened as a flying plate slowly covered all that they could see. I shut my eyes and tried my hardest to spit a word out of my mouth, crying miserably for help, before having a ceramic plate shatter into pieces against my forehead and falling unconscious for what seemed like a week. 

That day, I underlined her name.