When The Weak Cry

Remnants of phlegm and salty pools of moisture create a path on my forearm as I hurriedly wipe my face with shaky movements. The footsteps increase in volume with each belligerent step. I stare at the shadow beneath my white-washed door. I practice turning up the corners of my mouth, endeavouring to rid myself of this tear-stained face. I should’ve known it was no use. 

Aggressively, my door is flung open to reveal a middle-aged man with a protruding beer belly and furrowed eyebrows standing in my doorway. My dad steps in and I try - and fail - giving him a toothy grin. Contrary to mine, the corners of his mouth turn down and his eyebrows seem to sink even further down, causing his eyelashes to vanish. In a different circumstance this would’ve been enough for a hearty laugh to erupt out of me. Here, it is not. 

“How’s it going dad?” I manage to stutter out. I curse myself in my head. The shaky echoes of my unstable voice injecting disappointment in my unconvincing acts. My dad steadies himself and seems to be deciding which strategy to use for this event. As soon as I hear his nostril-flaring sigh I know it's gonna be the mockery. 

“You were crying?” he sneers, a ridiculing smile playing on his face. I cast my eyes down to the floor and give a dejected shake of the head. I glance up and see his flexed muscles. Having seen this one too many times, I’m all too familiar with what he’s signaling. Flexed muscles loom in my line of sight, taunting my unpopular meaning of a man. These bulges mean nothing to me. Nothing but a show-off’s way of getting what he wants. 

I console myself with the fact that mum leaving him must have meant there had been something wrong with him. Not me. Not me. Even though I chant these words in my head, willing myself to believe them - I can’t. Years of manipulation and rejection have etched into my brain that it's no one but my own fault. Lies upon lies have stranded me on this lone island, deserted from mere human needs of love and comfort. A sweet image of my mum pops into my head, soothing me, consoling these lost feelings. 

Meanwhile, my dad has been sluggishly walking toward my bedside table. Confused, peer over and immediately regret it. He menacingly picks up my box of tissues, takes them out, and starts to rip them up. Every last one. The shreds drift peacefully to the ground, blissfully unaware of the tense atmosphere within my room. 

I feel tears prick my eyes at his frustration with me. 

He walks out without a look behind and I feel a sudden surge of red hot anger. I grit my teeth, hoping for it to simmer down. It doesn’t. Years of this treatment flash before my eyes, each making me grind my teeth together harder. 

It all becomes too much. 

This torrent of anger threatens to erupt out of me. I decide what to use this time. Lead pencils lie on my desk, alluring, almost beckoning me towards them. My anger leads me there and before I know it - I have wooden pieces and broken parts of pencils before me. The sight before my eyes burns through my eyeballs and something within me crumples. Moisture wells up in the corner of my eyes, and this time I don’t stop them. I allow them to stream down my face, not blocking their path, giving them the freedom they crave. I look to the corner of my room, where my mirror lies. 

The place I avoid when in this state. 

This strong feeling in my chest leads me to the mirror. I look into my dark brown eyes, the depths of the night sky glittering within them. The knotted pain in my chest when looking at my broken face is unbearable. Yet, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the mirror. The dark, broken beauty in my eyes has stories to tell. The emotion-full tears have experiences to relay. Yet, my mouth remains shut. 

Why?

***

I awake in the middle of the night with a start, my wet pillow causing me to writhe under my covers. I had been vaguely aware the night before that sleep would be a pleasant surprise if I did get some—and expected if I didn’t. A hand runs through my hair subconsciously while my mind seems to run 1000 miles per hour. So much to say, yet no means for it to spill out from. Words form a whirlpool in my mind, threatening to spill out in a torrent. 

I think back to last night's events and the whirlpool subsides, the silence and lack of words seemingly more nerve-racking than the assailment of words. 

The image of my father arises in my mind and I feel my tongue go dry in my mouth, the saliva draining like a running tap down an open sink. I blink the moisture away from my eyes and I’m reminded of the night sky within them, reflected in the mirror.

On a whim, I decide to get up and turn on the light. My knowledge of what to do next is ephemeral, but my feet lead me to my mirror, head bent as a result of the bright, fluorescent lights. I blink again in victorious attempts to accustom my eyes to the light. I tilt my head so that my chin is parallel to the carpeted floor. Something shifts inside of me as I stare at my defined jawline, messy black hair, angular eyes, up-turned nose. I set my jaw and decide that I will speak to him. I will stand up for all that I’ve endured for these past years; I’ll take back what was once mine. My confidence, faith in myself, belief in my capability, perseverance in tough times.

***

Knock, knock! Two smart raps at my door startle me out of bed. I croak a feeble “come in.” The door opens to a familiar sight: My dad dressed in his work suit, ready to set off to the law firm in town.

“Fish fingers in the oven,” he says gruffly. “I’ll be home by six.” He turns to leave when I remember what I had planned.

“Wait!” I call out.  He turns around, head cocked, an eyebrow raised. 

“What?” 

I falter for a second, wondering why on earth I decided to do this. My hands are numb at my sides. I desperately endeavor to recall the surge of courage I had previously felt and embraced. My body is fragile, a piece of delicate china amongst prowling lions. An aura of defeatedness surrounds me. I smile weakly. 

“Nothing, dad.”