Maria and I

Dear Maria 22

To my dear friend Maria,

"Why do you care so much about social status?"

We were having a conversation about how I absolutely detested those who didn't have Biology or any science subject to be lower and unworthy for my league.

As i scanned their confused eyes with a frown, it occurred to me that I was really without a doubt a socially phobic person.

The academic hierarchy had ruled my life quite heavily ever since I could remember. But i suppose again, that it was because of the way i was brought up. You see Maria, my brother and i had very different  level in terms of the field of academics in the eyes of the family. 

And because he was without a doubt significantly higher than me, and much more assertive. I was resented, cursed to be locked up inside my room. The small confinement that would only allow me to take 5 steps was my shelter. I never had the right to have fun. 

NO music. No phone. No forms of entertainment.

While on the other hand, my brother had everything. He had a radio, a hand phone, an iPad, his game boy and had the honour of being in charge of the remote control to the television. He even had his own laptop. 

"Could you change to the channel to the one i want to watch please? " I begged tiredly, plopping myself on the sofa, my 2 tuition bags dropping to my feet.

"No." he replied, not even looking away from the television screen. Frustration was burning inside me, and I flared with anger, mentally. 

"Let your brother do what he wants! Go to your room and clean it up!" a sharp voice scolded, and my mother stood there. Her eyes glaring pointedly at me, with hatred. 

"Have you done the dogs?! Did you hang up the clothes?! Do you remember what i told you to do?!" her voice was raised higher notches after notches. I flinched, and rolled my eyes coldly in frustration. 

Of course I never had a clue what she wanted me to do. 

"I'll count to three and if you can't remember, the belt is coming!" she threatened and hurried to her room to fetch the belt. 

I bit my bottom lip, I couldn't ask her to repeat or I will get a beating. I couldn't remember, of course, because I hadn't had a clue to what she was talking about. 

So I got up and did what I was initially beaten up for other nights I came home. I washed my legs, hanged my clothes, placed my clothes into the laundry basket, cleared my room and hurried into the bathroom for a bath. 

A loud slapping sound echoed off the walls of our kitchen as a belt print emerged across my cheeks. 

"WHY CAN'T YOU PAY ATTENTION MORE?!" another hit, across my thighs. Another yell another attack. I just stared at her blankly. I knew that if I cried, I would be showing the pain I felt. But the truth is...i felt nothing. 

Nothing. 

Nothing at all.

Every night later, I would never bother to sit anywhere in plain sight of my mother, my head held low. I would hurriedly rush into my room doing later on the 'things i need to do'. I would make sure she was not in the living room before rushing out into the bathroom. I was familiar with her footsteps, the sound the sofa makes when she gets up, how she sounds like in the bathroom, how the sound of her peeing sounds like, her exact movements calculated, measured and studied, even how heavy her presence felt outside my room door while i'm studying with my back to it.