Ungullible

Chapter 3: THE JOURNEY I CAN NEVER OVERCOME

Nightmares are what I live with. People tell me to be grateful for what I have, but they don't know what I've been going through. I may look okay on the outside, but I'm far from it. The maze in my head, the voices that whisper at odd times, the emptiness that fills my chest, the emotions I can't express because of my insecurities, this is not what I call being grateful. What they don't understand is who I am, what goes on around me, and what unfolds silently in my mind.

I woke up feeling drained. Rain had been falling steadily for hours, judging by the grey wash outside my window. I walked over and watched children run through puddles, laughing and shrieking with delight. How do they find such excitement in the smallest things? I turned away, a small pang of envy twisting in my chest, and moved to the bathroom.

Staring at myself in the mirror, I let out a long, weary sigh. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, and went through the motions of my daily routine, each movement mechanical yet grounding.

Wrapped in a warm, knitted cardigan and a soft blanket, I sat with my sketchbook in hand. The world outside might have been grey and stormy, but inside my little sanctuary, creativity flowed.

I immersed myself in the lines and shapes of the artwork I pictured, sketching diligently, lost in the world I could control. A cup of coffee, already waiting on my side table, added to the cozy ambiance. For a few hours, I was at peace, a rare and quiet escape from the storm both outside and within me.

I heard a faint knock on my door, followed by the sound of it opening. The person didn't announce himself, he simply stood there. I knew who it was without looking. His presence had a weight, an aura I could never ignore no matter how hard I tried. My hands began to tremble, fear creeping into every part of me. I couldn't bring myself to lift my head.

"I heard you got lost yesterday," he said, his voice stern and cold.

"How could you get lost when you've been going there for years?" he continued.

I sat frozen, struggling to hold back my tears.

"I asked you a question," he said, stepping closer.

I already knew what would come next; the shouting, the condemnation, the reminder of how useless I was, how undeserving I was of this world, of existence itself.

"When I speak to you, I expect a response," he snapped, grabbing my face and forcing my head up so I had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

"S‑s‑sorry, f‑father," I stammered, tears pooling despite my efforts to stop them.

He shoved my head away with such force that I almost hit the window.

"Useless thing," he said sharply. "If you can't find your way home, then stay there. Don't think of ever leaving."

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again," I whispered, lowering my head and wiping away the tears threatening to fall.

He said nothing more. He simply turned and left.

That's what I call my father; a heartless being who does nothing more than provide for my survival. We don't live together. If he came by today, it was probably to pick up something for his office.

Ever since my mother left, he has been this way, for as long as I can remember. He doesn't hit me or raise his hand, but sometimes I think the psychological torture is worse. Silent. Constant. Enough to slowly kill a person without leaving a single bruise behind.

I would say I love my father, but not everyone who brings you into this world deserves to be called a dad.

He is a tall, well-built man in his fifties, his body shaped by years of discipline and physical activity. Broad shoulders, a strong muscular frame, his presence alone is commanding. Despite his age, his posture remains upright, his movements confident and controlled, carrying an air of strength and authority that time has not softened.

And yet, for all that strength, there is an emptiness in him that I have felt my whole life.

I picked up myself. I couldn't focus on the art anymore my concentration had wavered; my peace has been snatched away from me once more. 

What more could I ask myself. This is my journey in life, a journey I can never overcome, a lifelong battle that I always lose. When would my escape come, when would it take me away from the eyes that look straight at me that eat me up from the inside? I thought 

I sit in the corner of my room and sob silently knowing no one wants to hear the cry of a worthless being.

Not knowing how long I had sat there crying I stood up to stretch my legs from cramping up with how close I folded them to my chest. I wore a flared skirt and sneakers to go with my cardigan and put my phone in my pocket and headed out of my room it was suffocating as it was, I needed air. 

Upon leaving the house I heard my father speaking with my caretaker. 

'Make sure you go with her wherever she goes I do not want to hear another missing report coming from you' He harshly scolded her. 

I snuck out the back door quietly to go find my solace. I halted a cab and asked him to take me to the church.

There I had been dropped off and walked to the back of the church where my favourite place was my favourite tree stood with its leaves dancing to the winds. 

I stood under the sky and took a deep breath. This was my home and despite everything, I loved it. A soft smile curved on my lips as I twirled once, clinging to the little joy I found in being outside before I had to return indoors.

I didn't notice anyone nearby.

A sudden clearing of a throat made me jump, my heart leaping as I turned to face the person behind me.

"Sorry..., it's me. I didn't mean to startle you... although I do that a lot," he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

My breath hitched.

It was the guy from yesterday, the one who had approached me.

"I didn't get to introduce myself yesterday. Hi, I'm Jason. Jason Black," he said, stretching out his hand for me to shake, his smile bright and unguarded.

Who is this Jason Black, I wondered, and why have I met him again?