"I'm going to my room." My voice was barely above a whisper as I stood up and pushed my chair in. By then my father's laughter had died down to embers, but that same smirk remained on his face as he watched my departure.
I walked down the hallway with heavy footsteps, tears threatening to pierce my eyes and rush down my face. Why had my father laughed at such a weakness of mine?
"Do better; it's how people like us reach the top. We get our shit together, and we are the best." My father's words echoed in my mind as I opened my bedroom door and slammed it behind me. Looking around my room and approaching the open window, I walked over and peered outside.
The gray and brown cat had departed, and the green throw blanket had been left discarded. I guess I took too long, and the cat got tired of waiting. My jaw clenched slightly as I put one foot over the edge of the windowsill, then the other.
With a small thrust, I flung myself over the window and fell onto the grass, barely missing the pipe from hitting my head when I landed. Looking back at the window, I felt my heart tighten in my chest, like it was a painful memory to go back to my room and do something as simple as take a nap if my father was present.
My gaze drifted down to the basket of food, sanitary products, and other accommodations that Garry from the store had given me. He had given me that when he learned of my family's condition, that we were all struggling to make a living. My father was condemned to a shitty office job and always got drunk, while my mother made the meals and kept the house running all on her own.
I did nothing but be the burdened son, the damn loser who read books in the park, who didn't stand up for others, and was too scared to admit that I'm afraid of things. At that moment all the pent-up anger I had been feeling was released with one swipe of the leg, kicking the basket across the backyard and scattering all the items across the grass.
I didn't want to be seen as a damn charity case; I didn't want to be seen as someone whom you're meant to feel empathy for. I wanted so desperately to be someone who's not afraid to stand up for others, to show a little vulnerability, to be able to smile and laugh with others without feeling judged.
Being a damn foreigner is hard for me. Garry seems to have everything out for himself, while I'm too busy waiting for something I think disappeared years ago. I want to be a normal, average boy who feels loved by everyone, who wants to feel accepted by everyone, someone who doesn't want to feel judged by others and welcomed with open arms.
The entire time I never realized I had kept kicking the woven basket I had received. With a kick of finality, I sent the basket flying into the fence, causing the planks it had collided with to recoil backwards.
My gaze then drifted up to the sky as the tears had finally begun to be let free, a rare moment of vulnerability that only the sky and I knew. After my injury I had always climbed on top of our house's roof, which wasn't really dangerous considering it was a one-story house.
I felt like the closer I got to the sky, the farther my troubles would leave me behind. Being close to something distant is akin to feeling close to something you never knew listened to you.
This was one of those nights, a night where I could climb onto the roof and gaze up at the stars, where I could whisper my problems to them and receive comfort in knowing that someone listened. All of a sudden, I heard a voice call from above; it was my mother's.
"Come inside, it's cold." Her eyes glistened with worry as she saw my tears, and I felt like she might grow tears of her own if I continued. I remained planted in my spot, not wanting to move. My gaze remained on my mother—tears continued to run down my face and my breath remained shaky.
"I wanna talk with you, honey." Her voice softened to a shaky whisper, her hands curling around the edge of the windowsill as she looked down at me.
Hearing her words I felt my heart stop for a moment, and my blood ran cold. Did my mother actually want to talk with me?
"I'll make you some cocoa, I don't want you getting a cold." She turned around and left, and I heard the door being left open after she entered the hallway. Now that the mists of my anger and venting had lifted, it was pretty cold outside.
I climbed back into my room, feeling the solidness of the spring beneath myself as I lay back on my bed and clutched a pillow to my chest. After a few minutes of silence my mother came back into the room carrying a mug with hot cocoa, with a tiny amount of whipped cream just how I liked it.
I wanted to say something like: "You never do stuff like this for me," but I felt like that would kill the mood and she might take offense. My mother reached out and gave me the mug as she closed the window, her gaze lingering on the items scattered across the yard.
Something in her expression told me she wanted to ask, but I suppose my current condition was the bigger priority at the moment, so she turned away and looked back at me with a soft expression.
"I apologize for how dad reacted." She said gently as she sat down on the bed beside me, her black eyes falling on the wooden floor beneath my bed.
"Y'know it's not really his fault." She continued.
"When me and your father first got together...he had his own issues. He just experienced a breakup and resorted to drinking to calm himself down, only to become violent and agitated afterwards."
"Why did he never beat me?" I asked, the words falling out of my mouth as if they've been waiting there for years.
"Well..." My mother fell silent, after a few moments she sighed. "Your father has always made comments regarding your past. And it breaks my heart to tell you that it's true...we did find you in a dumpster."
"What?..."
My mothers eyes darted over to me, before she wrapped me in a large hug, and I could feel the moisture begin to collect on my shoulder from her tears.
"Your father saw your awful condition and decided to stop drinking a lot more. He'd only told me after we found you that his father beat him up too, and he felt like escaping...just like you do."
I felt my breath quicken as I wrapped my arms around my mother, new and fresh tears gushing down my face as I realized she understood me perfectly, but at the same time...how did she know how I was feeling deep down?
"How did you know?..."
At that moment she let go of me, resting a hand on my knee as she sighed softly. "Sometimes when people get really, really sad they think they don't want to...live anymore."
I noticed her bottom lip quivering as her eyes met mine. "The cause of your memory loss...we don't know exactly...but we believe it was due to...an attempt on your own life."
"No..."
"We were informed when you were rushed to the hospital, and since you had already forgotten what happened...we lied so you wouldn't do anything else bad to yourself."
I didn't know what to say, my breath seemed to leave my lungs as I leaned back into my bed, staring at the ceiling. "How did Dad react?"
My mother paused for a beat, her hands gripping the torn sheets of my bed as she replied with hesitancy. "That night after you were treated and taken home from the hospital...he got drunk...again."
"Doesn't he always?" I covered my head with my hands, sighing.
"He told me things he's never said since. He said he felt bad even if he wasn't entirely there."
"Let me guess, he was smoking outside the room?"
The way my mothers expression shifted silently told me that was true. "He told me that he's sorry for everything."
I raised my head, my brows furrowing. "And why should I forgive him, he's an asshole! He makes me sort papers like some damn robot and he doesn't do anything with me outside of that!"
Even after I swore for the first time around my mother, her gentle and empathetic expression didn't shift away. She rested a hand on my shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.
"Do you want some...time alone?"
"Sure, whatever." I rolled over in my bed, facing the wall. Behind me I heard my mother stand up and approach the closet, tossing me the usual light blue pair of pajamas.
"Sure..." I grumbled out, taking the clothing as I removed my sleeveless sweater and unbuttoned my shirt.
After I had changed I adjusted the collar and cuffs as I lied down, trying to distract my hands and my mind from what I had learned. Had I really tried to take my life earlier?
...
My father slept in the armchair, his arms dangling over the edge as they quietly brushed back and forth against the thin carpet. The living room was one of the only places in the house where we could afford a carpet.
The television was left on. The screen shone dimly, playing an old sitcom from a few decades ago, but not old enough to be in black and white. The house was quiet and tranquil, except for the sound of quiet footsteps.
At the end of the short hallway, my bedroom door opened, and I stepped out, my bare feet twitching as they touched the cold tile floor. Sometimes I wish I was smaller; that way my pajama pants could properly shield my feet, even if they did pool around my ankles.
Walking down the hallway, I turned left into the kitchen, feeling the house in its silence. Outside, through the window, which had been left open by a crack, I could hear the faint chirping of crickets and a neighborhood dog barking in the distance, followed by shouts of its owner scolding it for being loud.
My gaze then shifted to the living room, where I could see my father resting in the armchair, sound asleep. He appeared to be a phantom in the dim lights, his closed eyes and parted lips resembling a ghost who had been resting for a century.
This was the man who had drunk his problems away, neglected his son's mental health, and laughed at him for being scared of blood. My fists clenched into tight, pale white knuckles as I clenched my jaw tightly in my mouth.
My hands quivered as I reached for the kitchen drawer, pulling it open and gazing upon the few culinary items we had in our possession. There were forks and spoons scattered across the inside of the drawer, along with a stack of napkins and a few messily folded kitchen towels.
Sitting next to other items was a large butcher knife my mother had bought to cut meat more efficiently. My hand wrapped around its smooth, polished handle as I gazed at the shiny blade, seeing my reflection on the surface.
My eyes appeared dark and sunken, and my brownish-black hair was a tangled mess, and my glasses were askew on my face. My eyes were also puffy from my earlier crying.
Gripping the knife a little tighter, afraid to drop it, I carefully walked across the kitchen, remembering which floor tiles squeaked and screamed when stepped on. Making my way onto the carpet with assassin-like precision, I walked over to the reclining chair where my father was resting.
"Are you so sure you want to do this?" A voice suddenly sounded behind me.
I immediately turned around, seeing a figure in the dim light. She was shorter than me and had long, messy black hair tied into a bun with a pencil through it. She had a round nose and complimenting round glasses.
It was Ayumi!
"I can't be a victim anymore..." I turned back around, raising the knife above my head, aiming it directly at my father's throat. With a quick, silent, and precise swing, I sunk it into him.