Cry Me A River

Mom lets go of my hand as our house comes into sight, the sun hiding behind the pointy, black roof, right above the triangular window that’s always open because Dad likes it cold. A familiar sight. Goosebumps on my arms.

“Don’t tell Dad you already ate, he made dinner.”, Mom says, taking out her bundle of keys and searching for the right one.

“Do I have to eat it though?”, I ask.

“Of course.”

We’re greeted by a dim, warm light and lively chatter as Mom pushes the door open. I wait, let her go first, then follow right behind her into a different world. But, as to be expected, nothing changes.

Dad notices us first, his face lighting up as he speaks, “Ah! The wanderers are back, how was it?” and I sit down to untangle the strings of my shoes. The floor is cold, but the house feels warm. A lump in my throat. 

“Well, it was pretty long. After a while it got cold, but still good.”, Mom then answers Dad. I don’t bother to. It’s so hot in here.

“Glad to hear it, then. Want burgers, you two? David helped a bit, he washed the salad.”

“Sure did.”, it sounds, deep, from the kitchen, where Dad was just standing. Now he’s walking towards me. “How are you feeling, Al?”, he asks from above. I shrug. What’s there to say?

“Sorry, forgot. Want a burger?”

Dad struggles, walls crumbling.

“Sure.”

The lump grows. As always.

“Me too, especially because David put in all that effort to get up from the couch and wash the salad.”, Mom grins, lightening the mood. Dad and my brother laugh at that, their voices loud and deep and annoying. I want to laugh like that too. Sometimes I wonder if it’s even possible to be like that. With your outsides matching your insides. Laughter and joy. There’s no such thing for me. Not together, never both.

Tighter. The lump starts to hurt, heavy in my throat. My face grows hot and I finally feel it in my eyes. Wet. My vision blurs.

“Al?”, Dad calls. I don’t answer.

I’m trapped in a box and the walls are burning. The narrow space is heating up.

“Oh my god, again?”, David’s voice sounds disgusted, he’s closer now. The shift in his mood is sudden. I look up to find a blurry, tall figure standing in the door frame that separates the kitchen and the entryway

“Are you fucking crying again?”, he spits.

A tear rolls down my cheeks until it reaches my chin and falls onto my jeans. Another follows, hits my knee.

“Mom,” I say, voice heavy.

“Oh, honey, come here.”

Mom closes the front door and kneels down. From behind, I feel her press against me and pull me into a tight hug. I stay still, watching the silhouette in front of me.

“Can’t you cry alone? Jesus.”

I let those words fill my chest like a cold breeze, searching through my heart, loosening the tightness. Different. Cold. The warmth in my wet cheeks still present, but with a wind blowing. It’s not enough though. Mom hugs me tighter, probably giving David a look. I feel her head slowly turning from left to right. No words are needed here, everyone knows what’s happening. But I can’t live like that. I can’t keep living like that.

“Mom, it hurts, it hurts really bad.”

She presses her head against mine. She knows.

“Mom, please.”

I’m openly sobbing now, multiple tears burning down my face at once. This doesn’t work, it’s not enough, someone has to make this stop.

“Mom, I can’t. M-make it stop, please.”

And I scream.

I’m one to cry. Always crying, always emotional, but how I wish that I was emotional now. People describe depression as seeing gray, being tired and sad. But no one ever talks about that version where you see dark, intense colors; lilac, dark blue, red. Where you can’t feel emotions and the world doesn’t look gray, but ugly-yellow. The version that traps you inside a box that heats you up and makes you feel like you’re burning inside. Everything’s the same ugly-yellow until the yellow intensifies and it hurts until you’re not burning inside, you’re being burned alive. And here I am in that moment, expecting the fire. But this time, on this one day, there’s something different. Someone is pouring water over the fire. The truth is icy.

“Nobody wants to hear that, cry alone.”, my brother repeats himself, speaks the truth again. And I want more.

“Young man!”, Dad raises his voice at him. In an instant, he’s gone from warm to cold too. Another breeze.

“What, we’re all thinking it. It’s annoying as fuck!”

“I swear to god if you don’t shut your mouth—”

“What, huh? Just because that psycho is crazy and has to take pills doesn’t mean she has to cry every day and scream like that. She can cry me a fucking river!”

More, I’m thirsting for more. My cries quiet down slowly. My brother in the door frame has moved his arms to his head now, cursing to himself, less blurry. Slowly, I reach for my mother’s arms and move them away from my body. I loosen the hug, the box.

“Lini? What—“, Mom starts. I cut her off, “I’m gonna go to my room.”

“Fucking finally.”

“David!”

I finally finish taking off my shoes, heave myself off the ground and walk towards the stairs. With every step, I feel colder. Away from the fire. It’s not them, it’s me, so I need to leave. Not like that though, I’m not planning to run away. I’m just going to my room is all. With the window wide open and my feet now bare I step towards the bed. 

No bedding.

I head towards Mom’s room and take the pink blanket and pillow from the mattress placed next to her wide double-bed. The blanket drags over the ground as I walk back to my old room to place it on my own bed, where it belongs. I close the door, turn off the lights. For the first time in six months, I sleep in my own bed.

My body cools.