I was eight. I was blessed with the perfect parents. Both their hearts were fulfilled with love and care. Every moment was heavenly. I lived in an averaged sized, 3-bedroom apartment in what was considered ‘normal.’ It was good enough for me. The oval shaped window revealed its outer secrets, the growing towers bordered with a beautiful skyline.
Father was a man of great expectations. A man of many wise words. His broad shoulders would easily swing me from side to side like a wild hungry lion ripping and swinging his possession; his raw meat. In my case I was the loving prey for my Father, the predator, the bread winner of the family. I was his little princess.
Mother was a lady, petite sized with a facial appearance carved from the clouds up above, the clouds in heaven. Mother was a woman who glowed with love for me. Her greatest asset was her silky, black locks that matched her thinly waxed eyebrows which also complimented her brown tan.
One day, for the first time every Mother and Father were in their bedroom raving. It wasn’t a common sign which usually are positive. I could hear smashing and slamming against the walls. My ears sensed danger. They were noises that I had never heard before. The sense of love that flowed like a river through the air had shattered into broken pieces like corrupted glass which were non-fixable. I could barely make out what was being said. My distraction towards the aromatic spices and herbs from the kitchen flew up my tempted nose. The cuisine had blended with my tears of sadness. I couldn’t understand, everything used to be perfect, what could have happened? Before the argument I had thought of Mother’s voice as a relaxing tone, music being played from a magical flute that only she could master. Then the tables had turned. My voice seemed as sweet as sugar compared to mothers. Hers was now flat and dull. The lifeless mono-tone wasn’t Mother at all. It was as if a Hoover had vacuumed out the energy, the encouragement, the enthusiasm.
I thought that the past argument was normal for all married couples until it became a trend. To see physical fighting would be less painful than my pain. It felt as if a needle had attempted to pierce its way through my heart but got stuck leaving never ending pain. The trend became daily. The light ore around both my parents, especially Mother, had faded into the dark shadows. As everyday passed the hatred between the two grew and grew. Mother’s once soft, tanned skin mounted with make up for affect had altered to a yellow, pale colour. I preferred Mother without make up but it was far better then seeing Mother like this. She didn’t even attempt to make her self look better. You could tell by the way that she lounged around the house that she was too lazy to even care. Mother would sit on the Indian decorated sofas which stood out. The black, long shiny hair had also moved on to knotted tangles. Personally I blame the bottles containing alcohol that Mother used to wash down accompanied with her finger-sized cigarettes. I would watch her drown her sorrows as the booze over took her mind flooding her inner self with this poison.
Mother’s behavior began to really show. As much as I detested my life I loved it. Half of my heart, the candy half, told me everything would be fine and to carry on loving Mother but the other half, the cold half, would send messages to my brain whispering in my ears for me to leave. To escape! Escape to where though? All the pressure from my parent’s constant arguments was too much for me to handle. My sensitive brain was over powered. The repeated parrot phrase ‘leave home’ would haunt me in my dreams. Everyday before bed time I would bend my legs, clasp my hands tightly together so pearls of sweat would form. I would pray to god with devotion asking for him to solve my problems. I wished to exit my world of stress and tension. I never gave up. I waited and waited and waited…
The day came unexpectedly. With care I would drift pass Mother’s negative energy. Deep down my love grew towards Mother no matter what she was. Mother was soft and sweet like gum on the inside but her hardened shell took over on the outside. She was brainwashed. I was always alert of every sharp movement she made, every sligh glance she gave me in the corner of her beady camera eyes, every snarl she would utter under her rotten breath. I quickly limped across the carpet like a sneaky mouse to find my self in front of the powerful door. I called it the ‘deciding door’ as it decided weather I should leave the house and never return. On the way I had passed the rose red, ribena stain from when I spilt my glass on the floor. Mother had rescued me from injury. The memories were so fresh in my mind. It was as if it were yesterday.
As I opened the door, the invisible wind flew in and out of my ears sending shivers up and down my spine as if an elevator were traveling to different floors. I would stand there shivering, imagining myself in Mothers arms. The whole of my Indian coloured skin would cover in goose bumps, each individual one containing a hair all stood up equal sized looking like they were under commandment in an army.
My first step onto the African rug could have been my last. I wished. My long legged limbs would co-operate together so I could travel to where I wished to travel. They were under my instructions. I reached the pavement on the sides of the roads. As the first car lead the rest my heat rotated at a ninety degree angle to the right. No cars in sight. As I reached mid point in the road an internal feeling of sickness approached me. I looked down to find no blood. My consciousness was fading vastly. As I tried to demand my legs to get up they laid there lifelessly. I blinked once, the blue sky. I blinked twice, half the sky. I blinked 3 times, nothing…
