Asunder

Chapter 32 - Anything

I thought that I'd been thoroughly acquainted with disappointment after all my years. I thought I knew it well: I thought I could spot it in my mother's eyes, fisting in her hands. I thought I could sense it, feel it, smell it in the air. I even thought I knew its taste; red and bloody whenever it caused me to bite my lip too hard. But I was wrong. I've never felt -and will never feel- disappointment as I did when I found I could open my eyes.

Well, for the second time. The first time I opened them, I was lying somewhere, surrounded by people in scrubs and masks, mouthless and body-less; with only eyes and gloved hands for me to mark them as human. Something cold and metallic was on my chest, and it was painful to even breathe. So there was no place for disappointment. No place for resentment at the fact that I hadn't been permitted to leave. To stay gone.

But after, when I woke from unconsciousness, there was.

There was ample space. Especially when I awoke to see my mother, sitting in a chair in front of the bed, watching me with pain rippling like waves through her strong features.

She didn't look strong anymore.

I asked her to please leave. She wouldn't. I told her I needed rest and time alone. She wouldn't give them to me.

And so I spent the night listening to her vent, tell me how scared she was, cry about how she felt. It was disappointment all over. Disappointment spewing out of her mouth like out of a sewer. Funny how it took me a few minutes of death to see clearly.

So I shut my eyes and let her sob, because it was only disappointment.

I feel asleep again. And had nightmares. Nightmares of Maya telling me I can't ever do anything right, that I'm stupid. I saw through that, too. And even in my nightmare I was able to reject it.

Then, I only had dreams; dreams of playing when we were younger, dreams of her laughter, of our toys. Of our singing. Dreams of us, as we grew up, me wearing down every single day under dad's burning eyes, hearing her sob alone through our bedroom door.
Of us growing apart, facing our lives alone. Even when life was unkind. Especially then. Because in a family of hurt, and fear, and loneliness, we didn't stick together.

No. It was every child for themselves; the only way we thought to survive.

And in my dream I saw it all with perfect clarity.

My face was wet when I woke up, and it was morning. This time, I was alone. I had a strange pain in between my legs and an aching one in my torso, the former caused by what I later found out was something called a catheter. My legs were ice, and when I tried to prop myself up, the needles dripping translucent liquid into my veins stung.

Dad never visited. I never expected him to. And so there was no disappointment there.

But I sighed, over and over again in the room, occasional tears falling. And the room felt small, and lonely. The loneliest I've ever been. Maybe because death wiped away my illusions of my parents. And my heart was clear. But it was raw, and heavy, numb and pained at the same time.

Alone, after what I'd done.

Then, the psych ward. I frantically batted mom's hands away as she even-more-frantically tried to rest them on my arms when we were walking. I couldn't stand her touching me anymore. Not even when dad tried himself at a hand on my shoulder did I tolerate it. I only stopped dead in my tracks, and looked up at his stupid, teary-eyed pouty face. The face he makes at the end of Titanic. The face he makes when some auditioning singer in the TV explains their tragic backstory. I snarled at him, clawed at his paw, and walked the rest of the way two steps ahead from them.