IT WAS 5 IN THE am.
I had already showered and was dressed in my highschool uniform, ready to go to school.
You were yelling again. That's why I was keeping my distance, standing by the door waiting for you to get the car keys so that you could drive me to the bus stop in time for the school bus to pick me up.
I had developed a coping mechanism. Every time you'd open your mouth to yell at me and belittle me, my brain would go to my safe place, a place where I wasn't confined and alone. Where I wasn't always a screw up. Where I was accepted and loved and not treated like the worst thing that could possibly happen.
Other times I'd zone out completely. Not think. Not hear. And consequently not feel.
I was glancing at the intricate painting on the wall, as if noticing it for the very first time. I wondered what the artist was feeling, if he was even feeling anything at all. The colors were muted and the composition was horizontal. The more I stared at it the more it presented me with a sense of restfulness and stability. The African painting seemed to be telling a story, one about warriors and survival. I wasn't quite sure, maybe I was seeing things that weren't there.
As I was still trying to figure out what could possibly be the meaning, I realized that the room had grown quiet. The yelling had stopped.
Finally, I thought to myself.
I figured that it was best for me to wait for you in the parking lot because I knew the mere sight of me might tempt you to start yelling again.
I didn't want to wait outside in the cold so I reached for the car keys on the floor that you had thrown at me earlier in an attempt to hit me with.
That's when you did it.
My stunned body crumpled onto the hard floor, partly because I lost my balance and because you struck me undeniably hard, the whole apartment reverberating with the sound of the smack on my face. As a result, my teeth sliced the inside of my cheek and I could taste the iron in my mouth.
Of all the things that I could've felt at the moment, the most prominent feeling was shock. I was so shocked because I had no idea what I had done to warrant it. I did not see it coming. I didn't cry. I didn't move. I didn't do anything. I didn't even feel the pain.
I gripped the keys so tightly that I could feel them cutting through my skin.
My other hand remained on my cheek as I looked at you questioningly for what seemed like an eternity but in reality were seconds.
A brief flash of regret passed across your cold demeanor. You seemed almost... apologetic.
It didn't matter though, because I couldn't care less. I just really hoped that hitting me would pacify you for quite some time before you started going at me again. I hoped that it made you feel better.
Maybe it did because you didn't utter a single word on the whole drive to the bus stop, as opposed to the constant bickering that I was already accustomed to.
I went through the motions throughout the day. Played my part so well that everyone was totally oblivious to the fact that I was silently spinning out of control. Played my role so well that no one would think I was lifeless.
No one would think I was dead.
