In Memory

Shaken

          A terribly needed silence fills the home.  The night has settled in and darkness swirls around me.  I continue to sit on the sofa, not wanting to leave my warm seat and step out into the unsettling atmosphere of my home.  Someone snores upstairs, usually scaring me ─ but today it's comforting.  A wonderful change from the screams and shouts that pierced my ears only an hour ago.  At last everyone is peaceful.  For now.

          The living room is only lit by a small, weak lamp.  But it's enough for me to see, so I reach for my book, yearning for something to distract my mind.  I stare at the cover; a family whose backs faced mine, arms around each other, walking.  In the picture the sun is shining and you can spot little, tender leaves peeking out from the rough branches of the trees.  Skies are blue, big fluffy clouds, your typical dream moment.  Never had it, never will.

          A sick, twisting feeling fills my stomach, a mixture of grief, jealousy and anger.  It climbs to my throat and suddenly it's hurting.  I quickly put the book down and curl into a ball, stuffing my face into my arms and squeezing my eyes shut, trying to force a cry out of me.  I let out a silent scream, but no tears come out; I'm dry. I can't cry.  And that makes the feeling even worse.

          I remember the first few times my parents fought.  I was weak back then, and cried every time they started shouting.  I used to try to break it up, get into it, tell them to calm down.  It just irritated them even more. I didn't know what to do, so I stopped, and I would call for help.  But by then my parents would've already reached the climax of their argument, and there was nothing else to save. So we let it go.

But history repeats itself.

          All through elementary and halfway through middle school, my home was a battlefield. The parents were the generals, and the kids the soldiers.  We would take sides, stay with one or leave with the other.  Too scared to call the police, and instead reaching out to friends who were hours away, asking for a prayer.  That was the only thing that kept me sane.

          My life was split in two.  Heaven in the first part of the day on weekdays ─ school.  I had friends to make me laugh, to lift my lips into a smile.  The teachers were challenging but understanding, and provided me with work to distract me from my mind.  I had band too, music to seep through my mind and wash out my thoughts.  But those are only temporary; the end of my paradise comes too soon for my liking, and in a flash I'm back on the bus, having one last conversation with my friends before I get off.  I always savor the moment, and the quiet walk home.  It's all too beautiful.

          Then the evening is hell, tension usually rippling between my parents.  One word, and suddenly the war has started. There was hitting, choking, name calling and hurt.  And when they weren't fighting, they were sweet to each other, raising up my paranoia and suspicion.  It made me uncomfortable, seeing two people who were so mad and so cruel to each other hug each other and tell them they love them.  It's not right.

         Shouts from the past fill my head, shaking my body. You bastard.  You bitch.  You pig.  Shut up.  Too proud.  No money.  Stupid religion.  Stupid place.  Go die.  Divorce, divorce.  I'm going to kill you.

          Suddenly my heart stops and my body goes numb.  I can't breathe, I can't think straight.  Anxiety digs inside me, swirling around but unable to come out.  All these negative emotions...grief, depression, worry, confusion...I can't take it anymore, I'm fed up.  Screams are going off in my head like sirens in an accident scene...someone's hurt ...and it's me.

I'm done, I think.  It's time for me to go.  I don't care anymore; I need to leave.  Now.  They won't care, they won't even miss me anyway.  I'd rather starve and die then live in this 'home' any longer.