Broken Pieces

The Bathtub

    I sat in a dodgy hotel's bathtub, my arms wrapped around my battered knees. Tears streamed down my red cheeks as my dad screamed at me from the room next door. His words cut through my skin, slicing and breaking the sensitive barrier. As much as I love him, he made it hard for me to be happy at times. Situations were enhanced by his always negative attitude. One small virus would often turn into a pandemic. He didn't know how to handle things. He either blew them out of proportion or didn't care enough. Either way, it was never the appropriate reaction. My eyes shined in the fluorescent bathroom lights, flickering on and off. Bugs scratched and crawled along the creaky wooden floor as my dad, drunk as a bull, blamed me for everything.  I quickly came to my senses as I heard the bathroom door pop open.
    "Occupied!" I yelled in between sniffs, and the door clicked shut. I inhaled, gathering what was left of my soul, and crawled out of the tub. I splashed a cold handful of water on my face, poking at my puffy eye bags. My face was sad. My eyes were sad. I didn't look like me. I looked broken. I felt broken. I didn't know what do think or do. It was almost as if the real me had gone into hibernation. Like my whole family had gone into hibernation. With my uncle in the hospital, and my mom trying to remain calm, no one was their true self. My dad would get livid at a single breath. My mom often distanced herself from the rest of us. I felt like I was in a parallel universe.
     I lied on the creaky mattress which was sloppily made. My mom lied on the other. We sat in silence. I was afraid to say anything to her, in fear of triggering a rant in which I could not pick a side. My dad was somewhere in town. Probably off getting drunk or yelling at someone else. At least it wasn't me. I typed vehemently on my phone, writing down my feelings and trying to distract myself. "Are you texting your father?" My mom yelled. Confused, I sheepishly replied the honest answer,
    "No." She glared at me through the side of her glasses as she resumed to read her magazine. Her socks hung on her feet as her shirt hung on her frame. She had lost a lot of weight since her and my dad had started bickering. The front door busted open, my dad stumbling in. I merely just closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. I was praying.
     A few months after I had found myself in the bathtub for the first time, I found myself in the same predicament, but this time in the 'comfort' of my own home. I sat in my bathtub, tears flowing so fast they could fill the tub itself. Arguments between my parents were filled with true feelings and harsh words. Cussing. Name calling. Insults. It was hard for me, even though I had grown tolerant to    arguments every now and then. My mind was so full I couldn't think straight. New thoughts and responsibilities bounced in and right out. My mind was full of sadness and confusion. Despite all of the commotion in the house, the first day of school started tomorrow. I gathered myself reluctantly and creeped by the kitchen to attempt my good nights. As I neared, a glass jar was shattered. My young soul hadn't the heart to see what the glass was thrown at, so I creeped back up the stairs and into my room.                           Sleep wasn't a hard thing for me to achieve. I could fall asleep in a minute, tops. The hard part for me was the dreams. The nightmares. The fights always continued in my nightmares. I was always stuck in the middle of them, my heart used as a tug-of-war rope. At seventeen, you would think I would have more say in my position in my family. But I didn't. I was still the child. The oldest child, but one of the middle men. I hated it.