Pushover

Family is undoubtedly the most cursed gift known to mankind. You believe this because you've constantly reminded yourself of it. Since you were a wee little child of nine, you came to believe that while the word was highly praised and revered in your society, it meant nothing but the most foolish and detrimental of bonds.

You are sitting by your bedside table, your open window providing a view of cherry blossom trees, your Montblanc pen poised in your left hand. Your palms are sweaty and dripping all over your journal, but that doesn't bother you in the slightest. Your chest is heaving, and hot tears blur your already faulty vision, but you tilt your head backwards and the tears sink down your throat.

You had just gotten off a phonecall with your mother, and listening to her speak made you feel like a fourteen year-old all over again. "When are you coming home? Do you think because you have some petty savings and you can speak Chinese that you can survive out there? Who cares if it's Chinese or Japanese, they're all the same! Do you even plan on coming back, or should your father and I die first before you grace us with your selfish presence?" It was the sixth time this month that you've heard that last line. You wonder why you even answer her calls in the first place if you know that somehow, via some unrelated topic or the other, your mother will bring this up again. At least, you tell yourself as you wipe off mounds of sweat off the page, it wasn't your father that called.

Your fingers begin to move on the page. Every lift and press of pen on paper carries with it words of disdain, of attachment, of uncertainty, of fear. Drip, drip, your tears fall onto the page, soaking the whites and blurring the black lines. You curse your silly situation. You curse your existence, wondering what you had ever done to all the pretentious deities to warrant such a despicable reincarnation. You curse the filthy people in your life, and as you do, faces and names roll across your inner eye like end credits of a black and white film.

That's what you get for being such a disappointment.

"Shut up," you say to the air.

Come on, now. You know how irritated you make them. And you know it's your fault.

"Shut the fuck up."

You know I don't lie, love. You know my words ring true.

You slam your pen on the page and rub your aching left eye. Then you stand and look into your mid-length mirror, staring at the faint purple tint on the outer corner of your eye. That hasn't cleared in two years, no matter how much eye drops and treatments you tried to get it away. Good thing the blood didn't stick around though, you mull internally. If you had to walk around avoiding everyone's eye, a feat seen as impolite considering you are on foreign land, or creating excuses for the optic haemorrhage that never completely healed, it would be more traumatising than embarrassing.

You can almost hear your shrill scream from two years ago, when your father's fist dove straight onto your left eye and cheekbone. You can almost feel the unfathomable white pain that shot through your eye socket and the stiffness of your jaw, and looking in the mirror then, you believed it was only a matter of time before your eyesight failed you. You remember being paralyzed with fear from your diagnosis, and even more numb with terror when the doctor told your mother that if the fist had gone an inch deeper, your worries would've become your reality.

Rage races along your bloodstream as you stare in the mirror. By the side of it, your eyes catch your smaller hand mirror with its little plastic petal-patterned covering. In the next instant, your hand palms the mirror and sends it flying to the wooden wall. The sound splits the air almost like your scream from that unfortunate day, jarring like a thousand tiny steel bells rung without a rhythm. The once pristine condition of the mirror devolves into hundreds of tiny and large glittering pieces. Each piece looks at you with a story to tell, your story to tell. Some stubborn pieces make their music on the hardwood floor— their tumbling and spinning reminds you of the rain patting down on your roof the first night you moved into the lodging.

You glare at the pieces scattered on the floor, reconsider for a minute or two, then you run to grab a broom and dustpan and get to work. Again, your erratic mind wanders to your dreadful father, and one of his loving letters of advice come to you almost as a warning. "I told you about controlling your anger, didn't I? Learn to put a lid on it, or you'll have only yourself to blame for what happens to you afterwards." You remember telling him in a sea of frustration that him and his people made you that way. You crouch with broom and dustpan still in hands and scoff as you recall the hour after your father rained down his wisdom on you. Your dear older sister had come to you as you sulked and swore alone and asked, mimicking a look of genuine curiosity, "Why do you always act like you're the victim?"

Thinking of those words now brings a smile to your face. You understand that she's just as messed up as her father and his father before him. You understand that she too is a victim, and an even worse off one because she does not know that she is, indeed, a victim. You understand that you aren't the one in the bubble of self-deception and faux affection. And it makes you happy, as you look into the shards of broken glass, that your story isn't as fragile as the mess that lay by your feet.

Once you're done cleaning, you return to your journal and pick up your pen, ready to resume pouring the dirt off your heart. Then, you look at the words that stare back at you, words fueled with loathing and enmity.

See, love? You're directing all this negativity to the wrong people. Get a grip, honey.

You shake your head in an attempt to ward off the demons floating around.

You know, I think people will have found you courageous, really. If you had done as I said then, made the necessary movements with the kitchen knife in a hand and a tub of steaming hot water before, people would've respected you. Who knows? Maybe your family will have forgiven you as they acknowledge your remorse and regr—

Your palm squeezes the tear-damp page and rips it off from its bound skeleton. You take that as an act of silencing the witches of the wind. Get thy behind me, you say in your head. You take the page and walk to your kitchen, switching on the electric cooker and laying the crumpled, miserable sheet on it. You watch it go up in flames in seconds, and you feel oddly satisfied. You switch the cooker off, yet the flames blaze. In the heat, you see your distant mother's face, the peas of a pod that are your father and older sister as well. You smile and exit the kitchen, and as you do, you see the first of pink petals blooming on sparse cherry blossom branches. Your feet shift towards the open window, and you take your place by your bedside table, staring strangely at the beautifully painful sight before you.

At times, you wonder what it would be like if you hung yourself up on one of those branches. How surreal that would be, how wonderful of a sight to behold. You wonder how long it would take before the neighbours find you, before the obaasan down the block would meet you hanging while on her weekly visit to gift you tangerines and peaches. You hate to break her heart; the woman has grown on you. But you wonder what she'd say if you explain to her the turmoil in your mind and heart.

"When life offers you tangerines, you eat them and spit out the seeds. But after you do so, be sure to lay the seeds back into the earth just so you can spit them out again another day."

You sigh, cupping your chin with your palms. If only life was that generous.