Status: Completed
A Shameful Part of Me
Inkblot Butterfly Wings.
Men are useless beings.
As per the words of my late mother, they are insensitive, un-ambitious, lustful, low-life bastards; at least that’s what she called my father.
Unbeknownst to them, they were happy once, together. I was young, but the memory remains; the laughter, the hugs, my father’s beaming smile. It was all real, once, until my mother fell ill; that is something my father will never know. She told no one, but I knew. I saw through her façade. The subtle way she’d dab the corner of her perfectly pursed cherry-red lips, concealing the blood stained kerchief in her hand. The hours she spent in the bathroom, curled up on the tile floor, too dizzy to move or to nauseous to want to; beauty takes time, she would say, always looking a bit more worn-down than when she entered.
She was beautifully radiant, my mother was, with her porcelain skin and soft dark-brown hair kept always in the perfect bun. Her flawless smile filled with kindness that could once lighten even the darkest of moods. She was beautiful, but she was a liar.
She lied to herself and to my father, and she lied about the lies she told my father. She willed herself to believe her illness was fallacy, then avoided any medical examinations to keep reality from unraveling her already unstable delusion. As she belittled my father outright, she told herself it was for the best, that the distance would help him recover when she was no longer in his life. But there was no illness, she told herself. I, at the time thirteen, watched as my father became a shell of his former self. His once cheerful greetings turned into grunts as he bypassed my mother’s presence, which only offered cynicism and vulgarities, seeking solace in a early-evening drink. The once rare indulgence became an everyday necessity. One turned into two, two into six and then, however many were needed for the numbness to set in.
I’m just as guilty, I suppose, in a way. I watched from the sidelines, but said nothing to no one. I see, only now, that there was opportunity for redemption.
My father, who only wanted to feel worthy of the people in his life. Who, alone, could not handle the constant degradation my mother forced upon him relentlessly. My father, the man who once so proudly called me his little angel, I watched him slowly sink away from the living and I did nothing.
My mother, full of pride, refusing to show her weakness, hid her illness from her family, from the world. This, I believe, slowly drove her mad. Her willpower was strong, but her growing desperation forced her to take out her frustrations on the only person she could, my father. I was young, impressionable, and I kept my mother’s secret.
If I were older, perhaps, I would have noticed the signs, at least that’s what I tell myself. I would have known who to call, to get both my mother and my father the help that they needed and the chance that they deserved. I would have understood that there are something’s that you can not keep contained, even if everyone around you is trying so hard, pretending that the problems don’t exist. If only I was older, but I wasn’t. I was thirteen, fucking thirteen.
I still remember the day clearly. Crystal clear. When I walked into my father’s office, casually, unsuspectingly, finding him with his head down on his desk ’asleep.’ I was so naïve. I remember thinking how beautiful; the paint splattered on the wall, was like an ink blot test, which in that moment resembled butterfly wings, filling up the pure white paper. I took a step closer and froze, realizing. The beauty turned horrid as I noticed the crimson color and the pool, which gathered by my father’s head, begin to drip from the corner of his desk staining the colorless carpet, drop by drop.
I stared blankly, waiting for the moment when my mind would finish processing the scene that laid, uncensored, in front of me. I was startled by the blood-curdling scream that followed, my brain figuring out the situation long before my heart would recognize it as the truth. I lost my father that day, but in reality, did I really, I asked myself at age thirteen. A shameful part of me truly believes that my mother killed my father, long before he killed himself. I sometimes fail to subdue this thought, even now, at age nineteen.
My mother suffered more once he was gone. She tried to direct her frustrations toward me, but my hollow stares offered no comfort. She left this inconsistent, petty, miserable existence not long after my father‘s funeral. My distant relatives, refusing the autopsy request, claimed she died of a broken heart.
Only I, alone, know that’s bullshit.
As per the words of my late mother, they are insensitive, un-ambitious, lustful, low-life bastards; at least that’s what she called my father.
Unbeknownst to them, they were happy once, together. I was young, but the memory remains; the laughter, the hugs, my father’s beaming smile. It was all real, once, until my mother fell ill; that is something my father will never know. She told no one, but I knew. I saw through her façade. The subtle way she’d dab the corner of her perfectly pursed cherry-red lips, concealing the blood stained kerchief in her hand. The hours she spent in the bathroom, curled up on the tile floor, too dizzy to move or to nauseous to want to; beauty takes time, she would say, always looking a bit more worn-down than when she entered.
She was beautifully radiant, my mother was, with her porcelain skin and soft dark-brown hair kept always in the perfect bun. Her flawless smile filled with kindness that could once lighten even the darkest of moods. She was beautiful, but she was a liar.
She lied to herself and to my father, and she lied about the lies she told my father. She willed herself to believe her illness was fallacy, then avoided any medical examinations to keep reality from unraveling her already unstable delusion. As she belittled my father outright, she told herself it was for the best, that the distance would help him recover when she was no longer in his life. But there was no illness, she told herself. I, at the time thirteen, watched as my father became a shell of his former self. His once cheerful greetings turned into grunts as he bypassed my mother’s presence, which only offered cynicism and vulgarities, seeking solace in a early-evening drink. The once rare indulgence became an everyday necessity. One turned into two, two into six and then, however many were needed for the numbness to set in.
I’m just as guilty, I suppose, in a way. I watched from the sidelines, but said nothing to no one. I see, only now, that there was opportunity for redemption.
My father, who only wanted to feel worthy of the people in his life. Who, alone, could not handle the constant degradation my mother forced upon him relentlessly. My father, the man who once so proudly called me his little angel, I watched him slowly sink away from the living and I did nothing.
My mother, full of pride, refusing to show her weakness, hid her illness from her family, from the world. This, I believe, slowly drove her mad. Her willpower was strong, but her growing desperation forced her to take out her frustrations on the only person she could, my father. I was young, impressionable, and I kept my mother’s secret.
If I were older, perhaps, I would have noticed the signs, at least that’s what I tell myself. I would have known who to call, to get both my mother and my father the help that they needed and the chance that they deserved. I would have understood that there are something’s that you can not keep contained, even if everyone around you is trying so hard, pretending that the problems don’t exist. If only I was older, but I wasn’t. I was thirteen, fucking thirteen.
I still remember the day clearly. Crystal clear. When I walked into my father’s office, casually, unsuspectingly, finding him with his head down on his desk ’asleep.’ I was so naïve. I remember thinking how beautiful; the paint splattered on the wall, was like an ink blot test, which in that moment resembled butterfly wings, filling up the pure white paper. I took a step closer and froze, realizing. The beauty turned horrid as I noticed the crimson color and the pool, which gathered by my father’s head, begin to drip from the corner of his desk staining the colorless carpet, drop by drop.
I stared blankly, waiting for the moment when my mind would finish processing the scene that laid, uncensored, in front of me. I was startled by the blood-curdling scream that followed, my brain figuring out the situation long before my heart would recognize it as the truth. I lost my father that day, but in reality, did I really, I asked myself at age thirteen. A shameful part of me truly believes that my mother killed my father, long before he killed himself. I sometimes fail to subdue this thought, even now, at age nineteen.
My mother suffered more once he was gone. She tried to direct her frustrations toward me, but my hollow stares offered no comfort. She left this inconsistent, petty, miserable existence not long after my father‘s funeral. My distant relatives, refusing the autopsy request, claimed she died of a broken heart.
Only I, alone, know that’s bullshit.