YELLOW WINTER

Hate

9
When a child is born most times there's already a name for them or an array of names to choose from but with her I didn't know what she was called, all I remember are the horrible sounds she made whenever I wanted to sleep... whenever my neck was close to the rope, whenever i wanted to push the stool off.
The sound of her horrible tears would irritate the peace out of me.
I couldn't even die in peace! She wouldn't let me!
Whenever I walked into the room her teary eyes would anger me more.
The wardrobe couldn't shut the sound out...for hours I'll pace finally limping out to get a smoke or two.

I had weighed it all.
Drowning would remind me of when I watched Carol being baptized. Baptism...water is sacred...or is it not?
I've never being Christian but what would Carol's mom say?
Spit over my grave?
Tell Carol to never bring flowers for me even in death?
Reiterate just how right she was in telling Carol that I was bad news?

I could blow my brains out but I would like to keep the sane part of my brain whole after the insane part's gone.
Overdosing?
I hate pills...
Should probably try jumping onto a rail but I can't...I can barely move up this wooden stairs.
All I was left with was hanging but even then she wouldn't let me!
All I wanted was peace and quiet while I reflexively struggled to breath.

I've since resolved that I was just scared... I've always been too scared.
Afraid to do anything...to fight for my life.
We've both being cursed, cursed to tie each other down.
Some days it'll be the ticking clock. I'll come down to take off the battery and then somehow get more frustrated because I can't reach it with my legs dragging me down!
At times it was the sound of water boiling over in the kitchen. I'll drag myself over to put it off and then see her hiding behind the counter, hungry eyes looking down at the floor.
Some days it was the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
One time it was her eyes... I'd caught a glimpse of her in the mirror. It felt like my heart had been sliced.
Watching her tight but quietly lean on to the door, her tear filled eyes staring at the rope swinging on the ceiling fan.
I saw her fear, I saw mine.
She must have been 4 or 5?

Most days I don't remember her name so I just call out to her in angry "heys and Yous"

When she walks through the door when the lights are out with only the street lights carving out a barely visible image I swear I can almost see his silhouette when she walks in. In those moments fear grips me. I hold on to my cane with whatever sobriety I can muster but then I see her eyes stuck to her feet as usual and my heart slowly looses it's pace.
Whenever her eyes briefly meet mine my mind can't help but wonder which features are he's.
Take off my weary eyes, my cheek bones and hair  the rest of her features are unfamiliar.
They must be he's.
I've never seen her smile, as a child yes.
Her smile wasn't mine then...I don't recognize the dimples on her cheeks when she smiled.
Are they he's?

At 2 or 3 she stopped crying. She knew when to sleep, where in the house to be and most importantly never to call me "Mom". If she ever did I'm certain the scar on her back would remind her those words might land her in an emergency ward again.

I don't know when her pubic grew, when her mammary glands grew, I don't recall her first steps or the first time she ran.
No one told her the house was my graveyard and no cries or laugher was to be heard.
Songs were out of the question, opening the windows drove me to the edge and walking with shoes while the whole house squeaked drives me near shot gun mood.
I've long forgotten how old she is. She looks too small for an 18 year old, her eyes too grown for a 13 year old.
All I know is that the smell of cigarettes on her become stronger everyday.

On days when my mind isn't heavily sedated by drugs I fight the urge to make an agonizing trip limping up to her room.
But then again I don't care.
As long as she isn't sneaking boys into my house I don't care.
As long as she invites no one over she can disappear for all I care until of course I need her to clean me, fetch me my pills, make meals, to vent my frustration on.

I hope she didn't inherit my fear. I hope she runs for her life while she can.
Maybe I pray she abandons me and never seeks to call me, never forgives me, never hopes that we'll be normal, that I'll ever love her.