Chapter Three
xX The letter Xx
It arrived on January 1st, the new year. I watched it . . . for a brief eternity. It was encased in an eggshell white envelope. The writing on the front said my name in very majestic font, slanted perfectly. My name, can you believe it, not your name, but mine. I didn’t mean that to be offensive, I’m sure you have a lovely name—or if you are a man reading this book, first of all kudos to you, if I was wearing a hat it would be off right now— and if you are a man, I’m sure you are a very masculine man, with a very masculine name. But this . . . this was a moment, I had waited for . . . well for a very, very long time.
I have . . . a confession that I must share with you, obviously this story is just that, but I feel like there should be some form of trust between us. I my entire life, have done exactly what I was told, been a good girl who sat with her legs folded and spoke only when spoken too. Never once in my life have I ever betrayed someone or been selfish and done something for my own. . . . But I did something, something that you will see for yourself, call it questionable and you will probably call it immoral, but it was something I needed to do. I know that doesn’t make sense right now, but it will . . . all too soon.
Anyway, let’s get back to the story, and back to the letter, that letter that I spent the better part of New Years Day staring at the letter. In the back of my mind I had played this moment out; as you can predict it had a happy ending, but story of my life it never was.
With trembling fingers I traced my finger down the back of the envelope, letting my fingers feel the texture of the stamp. It seemed to welcome my fingers as I ran my fingers up and down, left to right, time and time again. I closed my eyes and took a steady and ever-lasting deep breath.
“Have you still not opened that darn thing?” my mother’s face appeared in the doorway, her head peering around the corner.
“No, Mum, I haven’t,” I replied, holding the letter in my flat palm.
“Well then open it, you have a set of letter openers, remember the ones Grandma got you?”
“Yes, mum, I’m just . . .—”
“Procrastinating,” my mother cut across.
I fell into silence, a sure sign that she was right. Not that I’d ever let my mother think she was right. “I want to do it by myself, okay,”
“Fine, fine,” and with that, my mother swept back downstairs, humming a tune from that ghastly ballet she took me to last night. Maybe eventually my mother will realize that when I fall asleep in my seat, snoring as loudly as my body will let me; I really am bored, not just acting.
When I was certain that my mother was back downstairs, cooking in her kitchen: her real true home—hey, don’t get all snippy like that and preaching about being sexist to me, for a start in case you haven’t realized, I am a girl and second of all my mother has a giant banner that stretches over the ceiling of our kitchen that agrees with me. In big bold black lettering it says “Carmen’s Kitchen, everyone else that isn’t me, get the f%&k out.”
Well yeah that sign sums my mother up. I remember once when I was about eight, my mother caught my dad trying to cook some eggs in the morning. Key words there being trying to cook, let’s just say rather than cooking the eggs, he managed to cook the microwave. My mother went absolutely mental, like full blown gasket mental, I can still see the veins on her temple reach breaking point. I’ve never seen my father shrink like that; it was like he went from six-foot-six to a toddler, hanging his head in shame as my mother towered over him.
Funny little side note: my father was trying to make her breakfast in bed. Ever since then he has been banned from the kitchen. I also heard of another little moment my hot tempered mother had: apparently, and I haven’t confirmed nor denied this, but apparently my mother threw a plate at my father.
