Hiraeth

I don't speak Welsh, but the only word I know of the language is a word that labels both my pain and my happiness. Hiraeth, my homesickness for a home, which was never mine to begin with.

Well, my home? The one which ripped me of my emotions? The one that stabbed my heart over and over again? The one which felt like a maze with no exits?

Maybe it is time to let go of my possessiveness. I do wonder sometimes if I should be crying over the things I have lost during the last month, or if I should be smiling, because I am now free from the noxious captivity I was in. I should be happy for the memories I created. I should remember the moments that made me smile. I remind myself over and over again to cherish the good. To cherish the memories. But memories do not mean anything to me. They are just a deceptive form of desire. You go through it over and over again to ease your thirst. But at the end of the day, it doesn't matter. Both of them are no longer with you. The object you desired must have been long consumed, and the memories? Reminiscing over the past brings you nothing. It only traps you. Living in the present is better. The past is no longer with me. He too, is the same. I would be lying if I said I didn't miss it. The home, the people, even the most heartbreaking moments.

It was about a month back, when I realised the truth. Growing up, I thought my father was always correct. And that he was, indeed as a matter of fact, wise. He taught me many things, but what he didn't teach me was to judge things by myself. I was too relied over others to judge a situation for me. For them to tell me what was wrong and what was right. For my father to turn me against my mom and me to follow in his line.

But then, as he raised his voice against my fragile mother, I realised how toxic he was. He screamed with all his might, he humiliated his wife. Never did his eyes reflect shame. He didn't care if anyone heard. I realised that day, I had to get my mom away. The home I grew up in, didn't welcome me. It didn't welcome my mother either. So why were we struck? We didn't have anywhere else to go. My society too, is rather disgusting, they think it's normal for men in the family to be taken care of, without anything in return. And the females can work themselves to death, and the males, still have the audacity to quote, 'I didn't ask you to do it. It's a given fact that it was your responsibility!'

It pains when you know what the exit is, but you're trapped anyways. It changed on the first day of the last week. It was my birthday. That is, if anyone remembered. I knew my mother did, my dad couldn't be bothered. I was finally eighteen. The morning made me feel free for no reason. Even tho I was bounded by these walls, I could sense the sunlight coming in from the exit. My mom wished me as I woke up, my father, as usual, was on a business call. He knew of the event at and around noon when my mom told him it was the day I took the first breath of life. My family doesn't have a concept of gifts or love. But that day, I asked my dad to get me my favorite flavor of chocolate when he returned from work. That was the least I wanted him to do for me. I wanted to have something I would cherish him for. A chocolate meant nothing, but the fact that he gave them to me, would be everything. It's funny how I desired love from a person I should hate. I guess that is what blood relations is all about. I was too thristy. Maybe God punished me for desires, but that day as he returned from work, in his hands was a box in black shades. Dark chocolate? They were my older sister's favorite. I always got them whenever I went out. So I could share with my sister. She couldn't stand the presence of other flavors. I on the other hand, ate everything. Now that she was in collage, I wanted to eat what I liked and do what I want.

Maybe the store ran out of Milk Chocolates, I fed myself lies. He handed me the box as he entered the house, his focus on the call he was in. It wasn't a business call, he was talking to his friend. His loud laughter rang through the thin walls. He didn't care that my mom was asleep in the master bedroom. My smile had now long faded away. I didn't want to seem petty, but my emotions were on the loose. The tears clouded my eyes as I creeped up to my room. I sat down, the box dangling in my hands. I rubbed my eyes as loud laughter boomed through the house. Maybe I should have never ached for love at all. Maybe I wasn't born to be loved.

A knock broke me from my thoughts as I wiped my tears away.

"Yes?" I asked in a low voice, trying not to show the pain.

"Did you like the gift? I searched the market for an hour. Dark chocolate is hard to find."

I must have frozen in time. I couldn't move or speak. I hated myself for being so trivial. But I couldn't stop being inconsiderate of his feelings, for he was never considerate of mine.

For years, I tried to care for them. But I failed to recognize. Sometimes, you sacrifice small things for others, you care too much for others that you slowly start to loose yourself. Sometimes, being a siant leads to people talking advantage of you or take your for granted.

"I like it" I barely managed to squeeze that out. "How did you know dark chocolate was my favorite?"

"I am your father, I care about you!"

And off he went, continuing his jolly talk on the phone.

I creeped inside the room my mom was in. Taking in her hands, the ones which were full of wrinkles and burn marks from working in the kitchen. She had now woken up, probably disturbed from the loud voices. She was still half awake. I smiled at her.

"Mom, I want to ask for a birthday present. Please say yes to my wish. For it is, the only wish I have ever asked for. Please divorce the man I call my father."