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They’re doing it again, you thought, biting down your lip in frustration.

           The sounds of your grandmother’s favorite chinaware breaking into pieces on the marble floor and the sounds of anger from the hoarse voices awoke you up, like thunder and lightning rampaging simultaneously and disturbing what’s left of your peaceful sanity.

           You looked out the window and sighed.

           Sure enough, the sky was blanketed with dull gray patches of clouds and was throbbing red with flashes of lightning accompanied by a distant growl of the atmosphere seemingly coming nearer and nearer, harmonizing with the angry voices as if they were playing a sick and cruel orchestrated musical on you.

           The local weatherman on the television promised a clear sky for today on last night’s news program that you always anticipated to watch every evening, yet it came out the total opposite—as it have been recently on a frequent pace, for days and days.

           “For years and years, I have suffered and I’ve had enough!” said the voice that eerily sounded like your mother.

           “Just because you are an ungrateful little bitch does not mean I wasn’t doing enough for you! For our children!” taunted your father’s voice.

          You rolled your eyes and got out of your bed. You trained yourself to be nonchalant and unbothered by the fighting and now it just seems like listening to the shouting of your angry parents was already part of your daily routine. It was like living through a defective radio in the background—dull, boring, and redundant.

           You memorized their lines by now, with the occasional “You never listen to me!” and “You need to step down from your pride!” thrown in between. At first it made you angry. You had a complete picture-perfect family, but in reality you were a broken mess. The fights didn’t used to be as frequent as they were right now, but the reasons were all completely the same.

           You pulled over a sweater and slowly opened your bedroom door.

           The voices went louder.

           You glanced to your left and see your little brother, a toddler, playing a game of blocks in the corner, completely oblivious to the cruel and cold atmosphere that your home has turned into.

           When your brother was born, your parents became even more supportive and affectionate with each other, and even before that, they were the epitome of the clichéd saying “first love never dies”. Your father just finally came home after nine years of working overseas, and they were delighted to be given the gift of a second child. They were high school sweethearts, and apparently famous for it back then. They were the star couple, the starting standard of all relationships among their peers—as what your Aunt Maia told you when you visited her house in the early days of summer.

           But months ago, everything changed.

           You don’t know how it did, or why it did, but the tension inside your home palpably built up. It was sneaky and discrete at first, like a predator studying its prey and grabbing it in its most vulnerable state. What once was a perfect home was now a house full of cruel words, blaming and backbiting each other.

           You tiptoed your way across to your brother, ignoring the fifth smash of chinaware on the other side of the room.

           “Come here,” you cooed to him. “Let me play with you.”

           He wobbly stood up and kissed your cheek as he sat on your lap contently. Your heart wretched at the sight of him not knowing that his family is going to be broken over. His eyes were so much alike with your mother, and he got his nose and lips from your father. He was as cute as a button, but your heart ached for him.

           “I’ll get you out of here,” you spoke softly to him but he was engrossed with playing his toys—and it didn’t matter anyways, he was too young to understand.

           Too young to be in a home like this.

           You plopped him down on the nearby sofa bed and got the sudden rush of adrenaline charging through your veins. You made you way into the kitchen—right into the chaotic psychological mess that your mother and father have tangled into.

           You stopped on the doorway and both their heads turned towards you in alarm.

           “Oh, as if the neighbors ten streets away couldn’t hear you,” you muttered.

           Your mother was standing beside the sink with her hands on her hips stiffly placed, her eyes puffy from crying. Your father was clenching his jaw, and his knuckles were white on the kitchen counter. Pieces of expensive powder blue ceramics—one of your grandmother’s prized possessions that she gave to your mother— lied limply on the floor.

           You made your way to the fridge and helped yourself to a glass of water, still pretending that nothing happened. The kitchen was eerily still, as if the visible rage and resentment wasn’t there just a few moments before. They both looked at you in a careful manner, yet you weren’t sure if they were surprised or angry.

           Or both.

           “I heard that, young lady.”

           “I don’t care,” you snapped.

           And you didn’t realize it until you said those words out loud.

           You froze.

           “So now you’re talking back? Is this what your mother taught you all those years I left you under her care?”

           “Oh, so now it’s my fault again!”

           They started arguing again, and without thinking, you threw your glass of water right across the other side of the kitchen.

           That got their attention.

           “Stop it! Both of you! STOP! IT!”

           Tears were brimming your eyes and your whole body was shaking from anger, days and months of built up angst finally let loose. You screamed and screamed and crumpled to the kitchen floor, not daring to take a look at your parents. It was all too much, and the wave of exhaustion washed over you like a taste of scalding water on your tongue.

           I can’t take it anymore, you tried to say but you were shaking so much you could not afford to say something, even as you felt your mother and father rushing to your side as if months of fighting each other quickly dissipated. 

Both of them were crying, apparently just realizing how much their fights have affected you, as they tried to hold you down from shaking and cradling you in their arms.

           Outside, the rain splattered down and thunder boomed.

           The weather man was wrong.

           It wasn’t a clear, perfect day.

           But it was perfect for your home.