I hate you. Now, and forever.

“We’ve been over this so many times!”

“Darling, you simply must understand the implications of your decision!”

I stare at the fireplace intently, to somehow avoid the incoming barrage of noise. The same words, replaying on loop, over and over and over and over again. I watch the freshly cut logs, with splinters sticking out like a sore thumb, proof of messy workmanship, blacken with soot, engulfed by golden hunger so insatiable, it wouldn’t stop until only shreds of ashes, minuscule but massive, lay in a mound, a mere reminder of its existence. Ash is quite an interesting thing. A single grain, so fine it could only have been sanded by a craftsman so skilled and precise, as unique as a human. Barely even visible to the naked eye. Combine grains of ash, into a myriad of particles, however, and the narrative changes. They become more noticeable, and impossible to clean. They become a force that you can no longer ignore. Together, they create a valiant opponent, only surrendering to the spray of Dettol and the inescapable scrubbing of a sponge. Unfortunately, not the one that lives under the sea in a pineapple. I would pay to see that.

“Are you even listening to us right now?” Her shrill voice snaps me out of my reverie so fast it’s like whiplash. Blinking my eyes a couple of times, I try to recall what they were saying. She’s twisting the ring on her finger again, with such rage it’s like she wants to strangle the life out her poor pinkie. I meet her eyes, my eyebrows knit with concentration, abashed. I could swear she has mind telepathy or something like that, because she leans back with complete resignation. I don’t know what she’s thinking though. I’ve never been very good at reading humans.

“I can’t believe you right now; you know how important this is to us.” He chips in for the first time this evening, breaking the silence, but somehow increasing the tension simultaneously. You never fully understand the cliché until you could, quite literally, grab a blade and slice the air, and feel the air push back at you, saturated with unsaid words and feelings.

My lack of response says a thousand words.

“Well then? Say something.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you guys, but you need to understand that-“

“We’ve been so lenient! We’ve been so understanding, and you seem to be taking our hope and crushing it to fine dust under your boot.” His actions are large and exaggerated, accompanying his words. If you asked me to describe my dad, I would show you this moment in time, because of how perfectly it encapsulates him.

My throat feels a similar sensation, where it starts to tighten and constrict. My feet feel like an unstable ladder eaten away by rust over the years, and my knees are wobbling like jelly on a plate and my stomach fells like a washing machine turned on, and then being violently shaken, and my shoulders ache and tears prick at the corner of my eye, threatening to spill like a glass overfilled with bleach.

No. Not again. Please.

Every time this sensation starts again, I am a prisoner of war, captured, left taciturn, and reserved, helpless, as the feeble wall I attempted to construct as protection is knocked down without a second glance. I feel my fists tighten, as I start to succumb to the snakes of emotion writhing and filling me to the top, full of the direst impulsivity. I start to switch off my thoughts, and let my body react instinctively, a defence mechanism developed to survive in such situations. 

No.

I must fight this.

“I can’t do it…” I choke out, using the last scraps of my energy and self-will. Do they not understand the pressure of holding the entire world on my shoulders? Even Atlas must’ve got so over-whelmed that he just wanted a precious release, a singular second where he could breathe. 

Thunder rumbles the house, and there are shouts from outside my house. I crane my head to try and decipher what’s going on, but my parents block my view.

“Why won’t you just continue our business? Is that too much to ask? You know how hard your grandpa slaved to ensure that it didn’t close. It’s your duty; you can’t disappoint your ancestors. That was Grandpa’s last wish. On his deathbed, all he could talk about was how he wanted you, and only you, to inherit his business. He entrusted us through a promise, and I am a man of my word. I intend to keep my promise!”

My mother stands, wearing her ridiculous faux fur coat, which she insists is real mix fur, a mixture of emotions on her face. I know she hates me for this. I know she will loathe the sight of me, for years to come. Her bleached blonde hair cascades down onto her shoulder. I ache to yank at it and make her feel an ounce of how much pain they are causing me. I ache to force her to eat her words, and wipe that look of despair and disappointment straight off her face. I ache to make them understand. Make them fully understand. I could let loose and show them.

Instead, I dig my unkempt fingernails into my palms, creating crescent red moons. In, two three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Focusing on my breathing should help me get through this. This isn’t the first argument I’ve ever had, and neither would it be the last.

“Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish Julie was still alive. I know she wouldn’t be this difficult.”

At the mention of my sister, I feel the cogs turn and rotate in my brain. It takes a second for what he said to fully register in my brain. The instant it does, something snaps in me. I’m a rubber band, who has been pulled too far. I feel the pure unbridled rage infiltrate my body, like hemlock, but instead of paralysing me, it sets me into action. They don’t understand. They never did. They hate me, and nothing I say can make it better. They wish I had died, instead, all those days ago. The disappointment, the weakest link, the mud-coated doormat everyone keeps because they can’t quite bear parting with it yet. 

I hate it. I hate this. I hate the way they look at me. Like I’m a failure. Like I’m sleeping inside a hearse.

They turn to leave, a final display of giving up.

So do I.

I let out a scream, manifesting all the rage, fear, hatred into a single sound, which reverberates off the tall, looming walls; a cage, where I am the predator and my dear, unsuspecting parents are my prey. I prepare myself to throw myself at them. The look of horror and pure terror on their face almost makes me stop, so I can relinquish karma at her finest. Almost.

“Breathe.”

I stop, dead in my tracks, like a deer caught in headlights. I look at the source of the voice, confused. How did he get in here? I look at the locked door and back at the man, and back at the door. He stands with open arms, as if steadying a vicious, feral animal. His face and his actions fuel my rage. He believes I am difficult, and that I don’t deserve love. I can see it in his face. I go to slice that expression off his face, but my hands refuse to co-operate. I try again, but all I’m met with is the jingle of chains. Thrown off course, I look at my hands… to find them hand cuffed to the wall? My eyes immediately search for the man again, who is now holding a clipboard, expecting an explanation or for him to shine some light on this. I have this nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something…

My parents.

Frantically, I search for them, but they’ve vanished. How? Where? What?

Questions swarm my brain, like worker bees in a hive, but without the structural order, leaving behind a chaotic mess. My head starts to throb, as I try to make sense of what’s happening.

The man speaks. “Hello. How are you?”

I stay mute, unsure of what to make of him.

“It’s time for your medication.”

As he advances towards me with a needle the length of an elephant’s trunk, I snap into action. My words jumble themselves in an attempt to get out, and the man picks up on my confusion. One question gets out, the most important one. 

“Where am I?”

The man’s sympathy only makes me dislike him more.

“You were arrested for the murder of your parents, Rosie Leeham and Graham Leeham. You are at a ward, where we are trying to help you control your anger.”

“But- But my parents were right here? They were alive a few minutes ago?”

“No †hey aren’t.”

“Yes they are! I- I saw them with my own eyes!”

“They weren’t real.”

He lays it forward in such a simple manner, like I’m a baby who can’t grasp simple concepts. I hate him.

“Please believe me! They were there!” I protest, like a criminal in the court of law trying to prove their innocence.

He shakes his head, giving up on me, mimicking my parents.

“They were a figment of your imagination.”

I start shaking, uncontrollably, wishing I could prove I was telling the truth. I look at him, my desperation written legibly on my face.

He turns to the nurse besides him and nods his head. 

What? 

What did that mean?

He starts to walk out of the cell, and the nurse emerges forwards, grasping the needle.

Despite my best attempts to protest, my vision starts to blur, and I see my parents looking down their nose at me. I clench my jaw, before going slack, into a dreamless slumber.