Scars Never Leave, They Just Fade.
It wasn’t like I was expecting anything to happen that night. It began the same way it happened nearly every night.
We weren’t the same as most families but it felt homely. Our newly installed warm, orange lights beat down on our renovated kitchen. Directly under the glare of the fluorescent bulbs was my brother. He was over the island bench lightly sprinkling his uncooked steak with herbs, oil and salt; and my lightly sprinkling I mean saturating and drowning the dead cow. I didn’t like his diet but any discussion of food meant the entire night ruined by insulting remarks from my brother and an exasperated sister who has been ridiculed one too many times. She and I would have lost the fight anyway, what with my ridiculous elimination diet I had been cornered into; not that I would ever be reduced to agreeing with my brother in an argument. I certainly didn’t in the one that was to follow; I didn’t even give myself a chance to speak. It was a different type of argument that was to come, one that I couldn’t withstand. Not yet, anyway.
Rosie, my sister, sat on the couch to my left. She was clothed in her thick, cotton jumper bought from an op shop years ago, but wouldn’t let out of her sight. She looked shrouded in her own comfort; I had always been envious of her pajamas. She wouldn’t ever be cold when she woke up in the morning to the chilly wind nipping and biting at our windows. I, on the other hand, stuck with my favourite shirt. It was thin and didn’t suffice for winter wear but a favourite shirt is a favourite shirt and any opportunity to wear it was taken.
It had been damaged from wear and tear with paint stains riddling the front and back and frayed string poking out of every corner. It wasn’t top quality, even when it was bought from a Chinese website over a year ago. That didn’t make me love it any less. It smelt of my own scent and had adjusted its ironed form to suit my physique. I loved comfort. I hated being out of my comfort zone. I hated being exposed, or even feeling remotely vulnerable. Knowing this, I would have gotten out of the living room before it all started.
Mum sat opposite the couch I shared with my Dad. Her body was twisted awkwardly so she could see her laptop on the other couch cushion. She relented to put the laptop anywhere on her body; conspiracy theories of ovarian cancer and infertility having a direct link to the everyday laptop taking priority over her own comfort. She waved her mouse over the mouse pad double clicking on everything. She then hovered her hands over the keyboards, one outstretched finger on each hand clicking a key, one by one. The constant drone of ‘click-clack’s infuriated me to no end. These first world problems really weren’t about to be of any concern though.
Dad sat next to me. At that time it was completely inconspicuous. He was my father who had been there since birth. He was my father who loved me and cared for me. He was also my father who unbeknownst to him could shatter my world with one word. Daddy was a passive and silently caring man. He could do no evil as it simply did not naturally run through his veins. An eccentric little engineer fascinated by the world around him who cared for his family day in, day out.
What could possibly go wrong? What could such an innocent man do to hurt his beloved daughter so much?
I don’t blame him. He had no idea, and still doesn’t. Neither does my mum who would put a laptop on her lap if it meant saving me from pain. Neither does my sister who would give up her pajamas just so I could sleep at night. Neither does my brother who would sell his hidden junk food to me at a discounted price (it’s the best he has to offer). I’m pretty sure my dogs Ruger and Rusty don’t even know.
It’s only me and my torn reflection that know. The reflection isn’t me.
My preschool teachers always said they never found me without a smile on my dile.
Where did it go so horribly wrong?
What had smote my happiness?
What caused me to not recognise my own reflection?
My eyes were stained with red, too sore to open from my puffy eyelids. I had 4 deep crescent moon shaped scratches on each palm from where my fingernails had embedded themselves too deep. A permanent lump had placed itself right at the forefront of my throat, weighing me down like a bowling ball.
The streams wouldn’t stop flowing, my lip wouldn’t stop quivering, and my sight wouldn’t stop blurring. I couldn’t tell you what I smelled, for my entire face just felt blocked and clogged.
Yet, nothing felt more clogged than my brain. Thoughts were ramming into my skull, bouncing off the walls of my conscience and reverberating louder and louder until it left me clutching at my face and needing to pierce the air with my wails.
“No.” that was all I could hear. No, no, no, no, no, NO!
He didn’t believe in me. He didn’t love me. He didn’t find me worthy. He didn’t think I was capable of a love worth the legally binding declaration of human love.
I told myself to breathe but it was one of those moments where your body just wasn’t connecting with your brain. After multiple waves of anxiety attacks crippling my body, I lay still in bed, face pulsating in pain, throat dry and nose clogged.
“Breathe.” I commanded myself, in a shaky breath. I closed my eyes as the scene started again, like someone hitting the replay button.
Rosie had that little gleam in her eye that told you she was looking to start a discussion. What would it be this time? Asylum seekers? Carbon Tax? How are babies born? Daddy tell me about when you met Mummy!
But no.
“Dad, do you think we should legalise gay marriage?”
They were the last words I had ever expected.
“No.”
That was his simple answer. He didn’t say it so defiantly however. It was more of a “Nnnnn….up.” He dragged on the n, almost leaving us in anticipation for his answer. Then the ‘up’ popped out.
Like it was something simple, trivial. Like it was a joke to him. Like it didn’t affect anyone else. He just said his opinion and everything was fine and dandy.
I looked at him, abhorred. My jaw had literally unhinged itself, hanging in shock, and, honestly, disgust at my own Father’s words.
His wife loved gay people and so did his two daughters; they were strong advocates for the issue. One of them was only just coming to terms with her sexuality. Saying “Nup” in the calm and warm environment of our house was a death trap.
A hurt exclamation of “DAD!” had slipped past my lips before I could even comprehend what I was saying.
From there on out everything was a blur. I hid my tears as I leapt off that couch like it was a pile of diseased corpses. As I shakily yet hurriedly shot down the stairs I could hear my sister’s piercing voice accusing my Dad of being a terrible person.
I loved him but he didn’t love what I was. He couldn’t love who I am.
Small voices littered down the staircase. I heard echoes of “Rose, Dad didn’t mean it that way, he just doesn’t know how to explain what he means.”
Then came outraged responses of, “That doesn’t matter! He said no, that’s ridiculous! I can’t believe…”
I blocked the rest out of my memory.
I didn’t go back upstairs.
Dad and I weren’t close again for a very long time.
And my friends wonder why I won’t just ‘come out’. This is why.
Because in the place you trust the most and feel just at home, the sheet beneath your feet can be aggressively ripped out by the claws of society, and by your own parents.
Scars never leave. They just fade.
~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Wow okay, so we had a task in english to write a memory or just a biographical story. Didn't have to be about ourselves. I don't think it was supposed to be this emotional or personal. Oh well, I decided to keep going and keep writing. Tell me what you think? I'm new to writing and I really want feedback
Thank you for reading! <3 xx
We weren’t the same as most families but it felt homely. Our newly installed warm, orange lights beat down on our renovated kitchen. Directly under the glare of the fluorescent bulbs was my brother. He was over the island bench lightly sprinkling his uncooked steak with herbs, oil and salt; and my lightly sprinkling I mean saturating and drowning the dead cow. I didn’t like his diet but any discussion of food meant the entire night ruined by insulting remarks from my brother and an exasperated sister who has been ridiculed one too many times. She and I would have lost the fight anyway, what with my ridiculous elimination diet I had been cornered into; not that I would ever be reduced to agreeing with my brother in an argument. I certainly didn’t in the one that was to follow; I didn’t even give myself a chance to speak. It was a different type of argument that was to come, one that I couldn’t withstand. Not yet, anyway.
Rosie, my sister, sat on the couch to my left. She was clothed in her thick, cotton jumper bought from an op shop years ago, but wouldn’t let out of her sight. She looked shrouded in her own comfort; I had always been envious of her pajamas. She wouldn’t ever be cold when she woke up in the morning to the chilly wind nipping and biting at our windows. I, on the other hand, stuck with my favourite shirt. It was thin and didn’t suffice for winter wear but a favourite shirt is a favourite shirt and any opportunity to wear it was taken.
It had been damaged from wear and tear with paint stains riddling the front and back and frayed string poking out of every corner. It wasn’t top quality, even when it was bought from a Chinese website over a year ago. That didn’t make me love it any less. It smelt of my own scent and had adjusted its ironed form to suit my physique. I loved comfort. I hated being out of my comfort zone. I hated being exposed, or even feeling remotely vulnerable. Knowing this, I would have gotten out of the living room before it all started.
Mum sat opposite the couch I shared with my Dad. Her body was twisted awkwardly so she could see her laptop on the other couch cushion. She relented to put the laptop anywhere on her body; conspiracy theories of ovarian cancer and infertility having a direct link to the everyday laptop taking priority over her own comfort. She waved her mouse over the mouse pad double clicking on everything. She then hovered her hands over the keyboards, one outstretched finger on each hand clicking a key, one by one. The constant drone of ‘click-clack’s infuriated me to no end. These first world problems really weren’t about to be of any concern though.
Dad sat next to me. At that time it was completely inconspicuous. He was my father who had been there since birth. He was my father who loved me and cared for me. He was also my father who unbeknownst to him could shatter my world with one word. Daddy was a passive and silently caring man. He could do no evil as it simply did not naturally run through his veins. An eccentric little engineer fascinated by the world around him who cared for his family day in, day out.
What could possibly go wrong? What could such an innocent man do to hurt his beloved daughter so much?
I don’t blame him. He had no idea, and still doesn’t. Neither does my mum who would put a laptop on her lap if it meant saving me from pain. Neither does my sister who would give up her pajamas just so I could sleep at night. Neither does my brother who would sell his hidden junk food to me at a discounted price (it’s the best he has to offer). I’m pretty sure my dogs Ruger and Rusty don’t even know.
It’s only me and my torn reflection that know. The reflection isn’t me.
My preschool teachers always said they never found me without a smile on my dile.
Where did it go so horribly wrong?
What had smote my happiness?
What caused me to not recognise my own reflection?
My eyes were stained with red, too sore to open from my puffy eyelids. I had 4 deep crescent moon shaped scratches on each palm from where my fingernails had embedded themselves too deep. A permanent lump had placed itself right at the forefront of my throat, weighing me down like a bowling ball.
The streams wouldn’t stop flowing, my lip wouldn’t stop quivering, and my sight wouldn’t stop blurring. I couldn’t tell you what I smelled, for my entire face just felt blocked and clogged.
Yet, nothing felt more clogged than my brain. Thoughts were ramming into my skull, bouncing off the walls of my conscience and reverberating louder and louder until it left me clutching at my face and needing to pierce the air with my wails.
“No.” that was all I could hear. No, no, no, no, no, NO!
He didn’t believe in me. He didn’t love me. He didn’t find me worthy. He didn’t think I was capable of a love worth the legally binding declaration of human love.
I told myself to breathe but it was one of those moments where your body just wasn’t connecting with your brain. After multiple waves of anxiety attacks crippling my body, I lay still in bed, face pulsating in pain, throat dry and nose clogged.
“Breathe.” I commanded myself, in a shaky breath. I closed my eyes as the scene started again, like someone hitting the replay button.
Rosie had that little gleam in her eye that told you she was looking to start a discussion. What would it be this time? Asylum seekers? Carbon Tax? How are babies born? Daddy tell me about when you met Mummy!
But no.
“Dad, do you think we should legalise gay marriage?”
They were the last words I had ever expected.
“No.”
That was his simple answer. He didn’t say it so defiantly however. It was more of a “Nnnnn….up.” He dragged on the n, almost leaving us in anticipation for his answer. Then the ‘up’ popped out.
Like it was something simple, trivial. Like it was a joke to him. Like it didn’t affect anyone else. He just said his opinion and everything was fine and dandy.
I looked at him, abhorred. My jaw had literally unhinged itself, hanging in shock, and, honestly, disgust at my own Father’s words.
His wife loved gay people and so did his two daughters; they were strong advocates for the issue. One of them was only just coming to terms with her sexuality. Saying “Nup” in the calm and warm environment of our house was a death trap.
A hurt exclamation of “DAD!” had slipped past my lips before I could even comprehend what I was saying.
From there on out everything was a blur. I hid my tears as I leapt off that couch like it was a pile of diseased corpses. As I shakily yet hurriedly shot down the stairs I could hear my sister’s piercing voice accusing my Dad of being a terrible person.
I loved him but he didn’t love what I was. He couldn’t love who I am.
Small voices littered down the staircase. I heard echoes of “Rose, Dad didn’t mean it that way, he just doesn’t know how to explain what he means.”
Then came outraged responses of, “That doesn’t matter! He said no, that’s ridiculous! I can’t believe…”
I blocked the rest out of my memory.
I didn’t go back upstairs.
Dad and I weren’t close again for a very long time.
And my friends wonder why I won’t just ‘come out’. This is why.
Because in the place you trust the most and feel just at home, the sheet beneath your feet can be aggressively ripped out by the claws of society, and by your own parents.
Scars never leave. They just fade.
~~~~~~~~~
A/N: Wow okay, so we had a task in english to write a memory or just a biographical story. Didn't have to be about ourselves. I don't think it was supposed to be this emotional or personal. Oh well, I decided to keep going and keep writing. Tell me what you think? I'm new to writing and I really want feedback
Thank you for reading! <3 xx