In That House

My mother used to read to me, “Once upon a time…” 

She recited that same line over and over and over again. She would be sitting over there, on that vomit-stained, creaking wheelchair in the living room corner. I would be sitting contently in her lap, letting her words weave into melodies that would crawl through my ears and soak into memory. Whenever she read “the end,” it was never really the end, because I would come back to her lap, day after day, and listen to her deliver those same words again and again. 

There was never a time when a word or two would fly away—for I would capture them and mend the forming knot in the tune. And then her words would continue to flow—steadily, waltzing into memory. To this day, my mother’s fairy tales still replay in my head—squeezed out from the confines of my brain like a wet, soggy sponge.

“Once upon a time…”

“Once upon a time…” 

It was in that chair where I became a princess.

I was never any Einstein. In fact, some would’ve preferred to call me the opposite. With an undeveloped frontal cortex and a premature hunger for risk, my younger self often danced with Death itself. But not even Death could hold me; I was a slippery little thing. 

There were not many others who would challenge the rules as I did. That was me—a cow among a herd of sheep. But people did not appreciate the boundaries of the world I had extended for myself. My world was cast away, ignored, burned. And so, I too was cast away, ignored, and burned. Acceptance was a scarce virtue.

Every day I would return from school and nurture my burns within my mother’s embrace. We would sit together in that living room—fire and water, yin and yang, balancing the weight of the world I had built for only the two of us. And from then on, it was my mother and I, sharing the mass of the universe on our shoulders—because what was the point of constructing a world if I could never share it with anyone?

It was in that living room where I became a survivor.

Crash! Bang! Clang!

I can still hear the battle cries from the kitchen. There, in that battlefield, flavors clashed. The sweet cornered the salt while the spice militia blockaded the sour naval fleets. The pots and pans picked a side, evading the flying knives escaping both sides of the field. All whilst the cutlery was caught in its own war—the spoons surrendering to the forks, reigning supremacy.

My mother, commander of the culinary wars, could never cease the fighting. Every dish created by her hands was a brawl of sensation; there was never a true victor. But those were the dishes I yearned for every post-school afternoon, when it felt as though the sun had been hogging the sky for far too long. Those were the dishes my mother would spoon-feed to me when I “could not” perform the task myself. Those were the dishes of my adolescence.

It was in that kitchen where I became a soldier.

As a carefree child, my main daily dilemma was, “Who will play with me?” This nagging question only ever had one true answer—my mother. And so, on to the office I would march, a warrior braving the unpredictable. I would walk, tall and strong, to my mother’s desk and ask her my question. Then I would go back the next day, and the next day, and the next—never losing my determination.

Nothing lasts forever. 

Slowly but surely, my proud march stalled to a casual walk, and finally, to a dragging trudge. Alas, I altered my daily path and decided to explore a new one instead. After little searching, I settled on one—my room. In her absence, my mother would teach me the ways of the wolf. She taught me to dance the tango with my shadow. She taught me to challenge myself to a match of rock-paper-scissors. She taught me to sprint sleeping streets accompanied by nothing more than the evening wind. There in my room, I learned to build my own dollhouse and live in it for eternity. 

It was in that room where I became a lone wolf.

October 20th, 2023.

That was the day when I became a young woman, according to my mother. I remember it clear as day. I had gotten into an argument with my mother and had gone to the bathroom to wash up. Then there, on the toilet seat, I noticed something abnormal. Blood. In shock, I screamed for my mother, who, despite her rage from moments before, now had a worried expression on her face. Then she saw what had happened, and her wide eyes and raised eyebrows melted into a bearing of devastation. Her eyes welled up with tears as her bottom lip began to quiver. “Mama! Are you okay? What did I do?” I asked, frantically, afraid of the possibilities.

But my mother said nothing. She only took me into her embrace and squeezed me tight with a strength I had never known she possessed. She told me that she would stay there with me, be there with me, and help me through every future hardship. She said it all through red, puffy eyes, as tears streamed down her smooth, pale cheeks. 

She lied. 

It was in that bathroom where I became a woman.

I will never forget the bed my mother died upon. In the aftermath of her demise, I would hide myself under those covers and retreat to a trance. In those sheets, my mother’s scent subsisted. In those pillows, I would hunt down strands of living hair from an unliving woman. If I concentrated hard enough, I would be able to feel heat bleeding through the blankets around me. If I shifted my foot, it came into contact with skin, skin, and then more skin. I would roll onto my side and feel the figure beside me, frantically running my fingers up and down it. This is real. I would convince myself this is her. And sure enough, it would be her jade green eyes blinding my blurry vision. It would be her silky, chocolate hair tickling my wet cheeks. If I closed my eyes shut, I could smell her lotus scent—a dying autumn flower fighting the winter’s frost. 

Until I couldn’t. When I opened my eyes, she would be gone, as quickly as she came. The strands in between my fingers would fade from my touch, in tandem with the heat in the covers. In that bed, my mother’s ghost haunted me—taunting me not with what is, but what was. 

It was in that bed where I became a lunatic.

_

Now I hang here, dangling by a thread from the balcony of my childhood. If I strain my ears, I can distinctly make out the sounds of children. Mama! I hear a baby shriek, the word slipping and sliding on her tongue like an out-of-practice skater returning to the ice. Mama! I hear a toddler giggle—vibrations of nothing other than pure elation escaping her throat. Mama! I hear a girl sob in horror, as though her soul has been crushed and beaten and replaced with a dead little thing. Perhaps it has been. 

But alas, amidst the grunts of overworked, muscled men, furniture scraping the floors and front door as it is moved outside, and the shifting of boxes being loaded onto the large van outside—the voices of adolescence are lost in the walls of my home. I can no longer strain my neck to listen for the noises, for if I do, the noose will tighten around my neck and I will fall. 

This home may just be the death of me.

And so, I cut myself loose.

And away from the home—no, house, I run.

I long to run to the forest. To the trees. To the tip-top of the highest mountain. To the twilight zone of the deepest sea. 

To the land they call No Man’s Land…

To the land of new possibilities. 

But not yet.

For now, I run to the car, ready to save me from retrospect. I load my luggage, fasten my seatbelt, and wave one final goodbye to the crumbling, fading building before me—the one I used to call home. The engine roars to life, and the car begins rolling away. And away. And away.

I look out the window, glimpsing the world beyond me. I watch as lone willows on the side of the road begin to merge together into an army of flora. I watch as the sun sprints behind the distant mountains, desperate to rest at last. No matter how fast we go, we cannot escape the stars suspended in the twilight sky; they surround my view no matter where I look to. But this car is not headed for the midnight murk—to the bright, ugly things up above. This car is designed to fly to the Moon. 

And so, I look to the Moon instead, imagining what it will be like to inhabit its rocky surface, swim its unknown rivers, and explore the lands unexplored by the generations of mankind before me. 

It was in that house where I became me.

It is in this car where I will become a new me.