Cement. My best friend since I can remember. Sad, huh.
Well, at least it's a lot harder to crack than people's minds. I should know, I've seen it happen time and time again.
**
Six years old. I'm in my old room, nothing now but the memories held within its walls. I am sitting in the corner, making myself as small as possible. Curled up like fist that will not open, my head between my knees. I can feel the icy cold yet comforting wall against my shoulder blades and the round of my tiny back. Despite my hands pressing tight to my ears, there is no way to block out the screaming.
There isn't any insulation in the apartment, so sound travels like its coming through a microphone. Even the drip drip drips of water that seep through the pipes are a ticking time bomb. It's always freezing cold, except in the summer when every room becomes a sauna. Seriously, it's as if the sun stays for a two-month visit in our closet or something.
Everything is claustrophobic; we have a small fridge and sink crammed up next to a way-past-its-time oven. In the bedrooms, everything is stacked on top of something else; every square inch has its own job. Our decorating consists of a weird painting of a woman in a frilly dress riding a carousal (which I never did find the appeal of), a vase placed on a pathetic excuse for a side table in my parent's room, and the Justice League poster that Mommy bought for me for my birthday this year. Daddy thinks it's just a waste of money we don't have... but hey, they get their dumb painting.
My eyes are burning with fiery tears. My throat is shredded from screaming and crying, but neither of my parents are going to come to my rescue any time soon. Instead, they're busy fighting. The hands over my ears don't stand a chance against the colourful array of swear words I shouldn't know and sounds of things smashing against the hard floor of the kitchen. As hard as I try, I can't ignore the sounds of Daddy telling Mommy to stop over-reacting and Mommy trying to convince him that back-alley boxing isn't a real career, whatever that means.
It's a recording stuck on repeat.
I can practically see Daddy's bruised hands slithering their way around Mommy's shoulders like a snake about to squeeze the life out of its prey. Even Mommy's given up trying to fight back. The only thing that gets to Daddy is "a good dose of truth medicine", as Mommy calls it. She knows he hates hearing it but "Mommy always knows best". She always tells him that he needs to find a job that isn't harming him physically and the rest of us mentally. I sometimes hear my name come up, but Mommy's voice always seems to get just a little bit quieter when it does.
The yelling doesn't stop until Daddy storms out of the apartment, slamming the door as hard as he can. Everything goes quiet except for Mommy's muffled sobbing mixed with the silent sound of my presence.
She enters my room a few minutes later and crouches down next to me. We don't say anything; just hold each other as close as physically possible. That's how we stay for what feels like days. I'm sandwiched between the skin and bones frailty that is my mother, and the strong wall continuing to hug my back. We become a paper-mache sculpture of empathy that's been ripped apart and glued back together over and over again.
Daddy will come home at some point once all of his rage has worn off. He'll kiss my mother on the forehead and go turn on the T.V. The house will be calm, as if everything that occurred previously was all just a bad nightmare. That's what Daddy does; takes out all his anger on someone, usually Mommy, and then acts is if it didn't happen. Mommy thinks he should see a doctor so he can get pills to make him happy, but all he does is just turn up the T.V volume.
Wake up, go to school, come home, block out the yelling, try to have happy dreams, repeat. That was my life not just as a 5 year old, but through most of my childhood in general. Those concrete walls I spent most of my nights pressed against were always there for me; always sheltering me through the bad times. They were there for me as I grew older and stronger. I had them to lean against on the day that I finally stood up for my mom and as a reward got one of Dad's fists in my jaw. They were there when I needed to take my anger out on something. Punching a concrete wall gave me bloody knuckles of course, but it was better than how my dad went about it...
**
These are all just memories in the back of my mind now, creeping their way into my thoughts every now and again. They were tough times but, looking back, they taught me what happens with uncontrolled anger and that it is never okay to take out that anger on anyone. They taught me how to be a real person, and what would happen if I followed in my dad's bloody footsteps. The way my dad treated the both of us inspired me to learn self-defense, and to keep myself from raging outbursts like the ones that constantly left bruises on my skin. I learned from those horrible nights, from the fear that could constantly be seen in the eyes of my mother.
I will never be like my dad.
Never.
This is just a story on the go thus far. Looking for some feedback or inspiration.
:)
