Ripples in the Mug

I stared into the blue mug in front of me, watching as ripples emerged from the edges. Each one moved through the dark tea, splashing little droplets across the inside. I wanted to be listening, really I did. But I couldn’t seem to pay attention to what he was saying. The mug held me captive, its contents stealing my attention. I tried to focus on something, but the ripples were all that I could manage. They were calmer than he was. Easy, consistent, even though their waves broke open against the porcelain mug. More would always be there to replace them.

His voice grew louder in the background, raising and vying for my attention. But all it did was make the ripples move faster and faster, crashing against the inner wall. How could I look away from the dancing display of my drink? Steam raised slowly and subtly from the mug, warming my face. I closed my eyes, but he sounded so far away, underwater almost. A battle between a man and a mug, and yet the mug was winning. Doesn’t the underdog tend to win in the movies?

But this wasn’t the movies. It was a dirty kitchen in a filthy house. An angry man and a disobedient daughter. A person demanding to be obeyed and another not bending to their will. There would be no Prince Charming swooping in, no horse making a miraculous comeback, no magical thing to save the girl. This was reality. This was a blue mug being the only good thing in a disastrous household. A cup of tea being the only warm feeling a person could get here. 

I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to listen to what he was saying to me. I wanted him to go away and leave me and my tea in peace. His voice picked up more, a shout now. The table shook as he slammed his fists into it. Tea splashed from the mug, dripping down the edges onto the table. I didn’t move to clean it up, I couldn’t seem to move. I watched as the droplets collected together into a small puddle.

“Why won’t you loOK AT ME, DAMMIT! I’M TALKING TO YOU, GENEVIEVE, THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS LOOK AT ME!” He slammed his fists into the table again, but I still couldn’t bring myself to look. More tea splashed on the table. A ring began forming around the bottom. My precious tea wasted.

I wanted to pick up the mug, to drink the warm tea, to feel something-anything. I couldn’t snap myself out of the trance that I was in. I could feel the anger radiating off him, more intensely than the heat from my mug. He wanted a fight so badly even I could taste it. He wanted me to scream back, swear, throw things. Give him something to justify his behavior. Anything to make me the bad guy. So he could claim that it’s all my fault-he’s just trying to parent and I went berserk. 

Maybe I needed to fight back. But that would only make him worse, make everything worse. He wanted to play a game with no winners, but then again, he never cared about winning. He cared about the fight. The energy, the intensity. The satisfaction of making me behave just as badly as him. That was what he really wanted. But I couldn’t give into him. Not this time. I was so close to getting out, at this point I just needed to endure. It’s not about being right anymore, it’s about survival. 

I needed to be calm. I needed to be normal, to diffuse the situation. I forced my hands to move. They were damp with spilled tea, but still I reached for the mug. I stared inside, my shaking hands creating more ripples in the dark liquid. Heat hit my face before the tea even touched my lips. I knew it was scalding, but I forced myself to swallow it anyway. The burning blue mug thudded softly against the table before I even realized that I had set it down. Lavender was supposed to be calming, but the tea wasn’t even close to doing its job.

“LOOK AT ME, GENEVIEVE!” He was full on screaming now, his voice overfilling the tiny room. He was silent for a moment before dropping down to a stern furious whisper, “don’t make me tell you again.”

He would get tired of me eventually, I was sure of it. He could only yell at a blank slate for so long before he would get bored or frustrated. Then he could wander off to get more drunk or berate someone else. I just needed to outlast him. I just need to sit here and drink my tea. A cup would outlast this fit, I was sure of it. By the time I finished this cup he wou-

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I opened my eyes and my mug was out of my hands. I could feel my heart shattering with it as I slowly turned to face the wall. Everything moved in slow motion as I took in the scene. There laid the broken remains of my mug, like a robin’s egg that had fallen from the nest. The pastel blue pieces collapsing underneath the tea dripping from the walls. He threw my mug. My favorite mug. My mother’s mug.

“That was mom’s” I breathed, finally turning to face him. His face was blank, the anger having left it as the mug left his hands. He wanted a fight? Fine. I’d give him a fight.

I pushed my chair back and stood up from the table. He was taller than me, but that didn’t stop me from getting in his face. He would pay for that mug.

“You want my attention? FINE! YOU CAN HAVE IT!” I screamed, “Are you proud of yourself? Throwing your little fucking tantrums like a toddler to get what you want? Geez, no wonder why mom left you! You’re a sad, pathetic, drunk old man who just wants to take his frustrations out on the people around him! DOESN’T FEEL GOOD TO BE THE TARGET OF IT ALL, DOES IT, ROBERT? You are the reason that no one wants to be around you. YOU! ARE! THE! PROBLEM! IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?”

I was tempted to spit in his face, but I held myself back. The stunned look felt good enough. I shoved him away from me with all the strength that I had. He hit the ground with a dull thud, landing solidly on his butt. 

Both of us were surprised, but I recovered faster. I rushed over to the wall and grabbed the biggest chunks of my shattered mug. I couldn’t feel the serrated edges of the ceramic cutting into my skin. I needed that mug. I needed my mom. My father sat still on the floor, his turn to watch me. Satisfied that I grabbed all I could, I made a break for the door. He didn’t try to stop me this time.

I let the door slam behind me on the way out, the sound echoing through the streets. I hope that sound would haunt him the way the shattering mug would haunt me.