Verboten:
/vəːˈbəʊt(ə)n,German fɛɐˈboːtn/
Forbidden, especially by an authority.
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In which a sheltered inexperienced teen finds comfort in a not so healthy relationship with her father's best friend.
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Amelia's POV:
My family treasures routine.
It's been this way since the day I was born, perhaps even before that, so waking up to the soft reverberations of classical jazz music pulling me out of slumber's arms was enough for me to feel the familiarity of the weekly praxis; it's Friday Jazz.
Regardless of knowing that it was 6:25 am and that I was certainly sleep deprived, I felt a light smile tugging onto my lips; feeling lighter.
On Fridays, my father wakes up at the crack of dawn with a sort of energy that's contrary to any other, he – too – feels lighter, and at exactly 6:20 am – the jazz begins.
The antiquated vinyl record that I've listened to for an endless number times over the years starts playing, and I find myself subconsciously humming to the rhythmic rises and falls in the music; I memorised every waver in the eras-old record as well.
My friends – what little friends I had – never understood the purpose behind Friday Jazz, but I did.
Friday Jazz was meant to bring my family closer, mindless of any previous arguments, mishaps or misfortunes. The moment the record plays, all hard felt emotions vanish into thin air, as my parents lose themselves in moving in perfect accord to the music; replenishing the beauty of the moments of being together, and as for myself I get lost in thoughts as I stand still and stare, sometimes even, my parents pull me in with them to dance, but my coordination - for the most part - doesn't even compare to theirs.
I never explained the concept to anyone, perhaps because I never took the little countable friendships I had seriously, I wasn't even sure if they could be called friends, for they seemed more like acquaintances. I always found a comfort in the sense of security of knowing that no one knew much about me; the lesser they knew, the lesser my chances of being hurt were. I wasn't sure where my impeding trauma of being hurt developed from, perhaps over the course of the years, I realized how low my tolerance for hurtful words was, and maybe - too - I was overtly sensitive - something I was constantly called out for.
It was always difficult, getting my emotions into check and under control, for they constantly rebelled against me, and revoked the worst of thoughts in me. No one knew of my emotional distresses, perhaps that - too - was a defense mechanism to remain safe and sound, but perhaps sometimes security became overbearing, and at those times, I'd silently cry at night over how meaningless my life was, how vacant it was and how I didn't matter, then the next morning, I'd wake up at the crack of dawn as if nothing had happened, and I'd push through, bury myself in my books and studies, and wonder if my life after school would be any different.
I used to constantly wonder where I went wrong to end up as lonely as I am now, but I never reached a definite answer, and at this point, I stopped wondering about it altogether. A part of me knew that I was at fault for being as closed off, shy and indecisive, but another part believed that my school was filled to the brim with hypocrites, and my frightened of being hurt persona lead me to back away altogether.
