Almost.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 

My parents. Two people that are in love with each other and their children. Two people that would do anything to keep their children safe and sound. Two people that are so blinded by their own stress that they can’t see what’s really hidden in front of their gaze.

They’re blinded. Blinded by stress and constant whining. They were blinded before they found each other, they were blinded before they had my sister and me. They were blinded when they had my sister. But when they had me, when the word was spread that another child was going to be born, that was the shining to their blindness. They were, are, blinded while driving and when they had me, they nearly crashed.

My presence made things worse. It made everything hectic. My parents were perfectly imperfect and they thought my sister was everything, they believed that she could do anything, go anywhere and would still come home, safe and without a single mark upon her body. I caused stress and pain. I caused hurt and agony. I was the reason everything around the house was so rambunctious. I was the reason that all these bad things tend to happen at the worst times.

No one could see it. See how badly it was all slowly killing me. They all thought I was just a quiet child. That there couldn’t be anything wrong with me, no, I was only quiet. Just a quiet little girl with more common sense than her own parents.

When I was younger it was all about amusement, enjoyment, jollification. There was absolutely nothing to worry about, to over think about. There was nothing, no stress, no concern. Complete and utter ecstasy when you’re young and dumb.  

My mom, a full time worker as a nurse, is barely home. When she is home it’s like a miracle. She’s home on the weekends but other than that, her face is hardly recognizable in my mind. I can’t make out the color of her eyes or the slope of her nose or the rise of her cheekbones, whenever someone brings her into a conversation an image of blackness appears in my mind.

My father, a part time worker with stress as his middle name, barely speaks. He’s like a zombie. A person without any cares in the world and feels numb with anything. He could get hit with a bullet and still be standing like nothing had ever happened. His eyes are hooded and my mother says I received that characteristic from him. I can mask my emotions, hide what I’m feeling from the people that don’t really care enough to look me in the eyes, or from just people in general.

My life isn’t hectic, not as rambunctious as before, but it sure as hell feels that way when you’re walking through your house with your head low and mumbling words you wish you could say but have to stay quiet over it.

I’m at a constant battle. A constant battle that consists of screaming out, hollering at the top of my lungs while pulling my hair out and crying till there’s no more tears left to shed or staying quiet and masking everything so no one can see what I’m actually feeling.

A constant battle between showing myself and hiding myself.

I ring my hair out with a towel as I stand in the bathtub after my steaming hot shower. My body’s wet and my head is spinning from the fogginess when I pulled the curtain back. It was nearing the end of the day and I could hear the yelling from upstairs. My sister came home with a black and purple mark on her neck. A hickey. My parents blew a gasket and sent her to her room expect she didn’t move to rush towards her room in a heap of tears and runny nose, she stayed where she was and protested about it.

I ran upstairs the minute the hollering started and now, even with a forty-five minute shower and music blaring as loud as a truck drivers horn, the screaming hasn’t stopped. My head was screaming at me more than the hollering down the stairs. I needed an escape, a way out of this house before I was the one that was screaming louder than anyone else.