MISANTHROPIC | pjm. [COMPLETED]

Chapter Six

He killed my mother before my eyes. 

I still remember how worried I was with how many glasses were breaking from downstairs. I still remember the terror I felt when as I hesitantly walked down the stairs. And I still remember the confusion of my innocence when my eyes landed on the my father, my mother's corpse in his arms. 

There was so much blood. There used to be so much shouting going on.. the moment wherein it was quiet.. I wasn't used to it, and so-- I still remember myself asking, 

"What happened?" I was aware of what happened. But I was so shocked, my instincts were the first things to kick in. It was as if my feet were glued to the ground. I couldn't move. The knife held by my father dropped down to the side of my mother's traumatic face. 

"Ma-" he stood up, reaching out his bloody hand to me. I still couldn't move. But when I felt his grip around my wrist and saw the blood much closer, I quickly moved away. 

"No!" I covered my ears. He was going to lie again. I know what he did. He killed mother. He was going to tell me that everything was going to be okay.. that it was all an accident.. that we would continue to be happy. "Don't call me that!" 

I started hating my name. I didn't know why - maybe because my mother would always say it so genuinely.. yet my father never seemed like he cared. Names were always a big deal. They were your identity. 

"You have to-" 

I cut him off again, but this time, I felt much more alive. I pushed him. "Don't come near me!" my heart was pounding. I was so scared. And as much as I wanted to check up on my mother, I couldn't. 

I just wanted to say goodbye. 

Even if she couldn't hear me. 

I was 12. I thought being a teen would've been exciting. I thought I would've gotten myself friends and hung out with them and had fun. I thought I would've enjoyed and took my time with so much things. I thought everything would become much easier to do and understand. 

But everything I expected - none of it was true. 

That's when I ran away. I ignored the calls of my father. Though I knew he had the stigma and trauma of his actions; he didn't follow me. Maybe he gave up on life. I didn't want anything involved with him. I didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered. 

It was cold as I walked down the snowy streets of the ever so familiar city. I wished I brought my jacket with me. The jacket my mother gave me for my birthday last year. I wished I wore much comfortable clothes. Not pajamas. 

I wished I bought some food or water. I wished I'd been more brave. And I took risks at the worst times of finding shelter. At that point, I wished I had talents. But I didn't have any. 

I wished I could sing, or dance.. or perform. Anything. But all I could do was sit at the side and ask for money, hoping a good samaritan would give me money so I could eat for the day. 

I couldn't even make myself a sign - because I feared that I would get criticised for not spelling my words correctly, because I couldn't read well. I was so ashamed of myself. And when I came to a point so close to giving up, a man slowed down at the sight of me. 

I thought he was one of the bad guys. 

The bad guys that reeked of alcohol and touched me as if they owned my body. I always took my distance. But something in the man's expression made me trust him. It was raining. And though I was below a small roof from a shop, he held up an umbrella for me and crouched down.