The christening, thankfully is long gone and though I foresaw perilousness, what I hadn’t predicted was the precise doomsday location. It turns out I needn’t have feared those bitchy, whilom friends of mine. Even though I guiltily snubbed whilst simultaneously being shunned myself, the actual drama my intuition was cautioning on was post-christening; when I returned home, face to face with the devil himself.
Because from the moment I entered that dreary, bitterly cold abode I knew shit was going to go down.
I was unaccompanied but I vehemently sensed menace lingering about, so I expeditiously retreated to the sanctuary of my bedroom. First, changing out of my smart-casual attire and into sweats, then becoming engrossed with narcissism, taking one or twenty selfies via my cell. You know, since I was rather pleased with the cat-eye and vampy dark lip I managed to forge onto my visage. After that I proceeded to sift through the mounds of mayhem I’d created during my frantic flurry that morning. It was while I rummaged boorishly through the bathroom drawers that my mother noiselessly came up the stairs. She settled rigidly by the threshold leaving no room for escape. She wanted to learn where I had been all morning but her tone in voice composed a different lyric. I knew what she truly desired, it was her verbal punching bag; me. I immediately accepted that no answer given by yours truly would suffice. So in this looming tennis match of wails it would be her to score the final points to win.
She must be the victorious champion in any play opposing her daughter. I truthfully confessed that I attended a christening but in the square formed world according to her, christenings are never celebrated on Saturdays and I was instantly ruled as a liar.
Game. Set. Match.
I walked away, as I always do, allowing her to huff and puff, sob and lament away at will. But this duel had unfortunately not yet abrogated because she was not satisfied with the conclusion. It was too facile of a defeat for her and like a feline painstakingly cavorting its prey, the fun was far from complete.
She came exploding into my room, directing her enquiries to my personal life. In particular she was most curious about what I do on the computer. Why I am on it all day, everyday?
That is a fair enough question, I suppose.
I elect to answer vaguely because I simply do not wish to jest with her nor do I want to disclose. My blogging and writing journey does not interest her or my father one bit. And as past experiences serve, I also know any attempts of garnering perspective on this life choice of mine are futile since she is just unable to comprehend. Incapable of viewing the lovely shades of grey within her conformity and beliefs. And maybe this is just the cynic within that repossessed that cheery optimism verbalizing mentally, but them believing in me? It’s wistfully laughable and hence why I just acquit.
She was relentless in her pursuit of my destruction. Taunting me about the supposed “glorious” lives of my peers. How everyone and anyone who is desirable is married and now having babies. And I am not. I have a silly dog, that is it. They do everything; travel and carouse while I do nothing at all but stay home. Whereas they have homes of their own, while I leach the life out of my poor, hard-working father and herself.
In fact I was sending her to an early grave. She made sure to point out that I would solely be to blame for her sudden demise.
She was acting preposterously deranged flailing her arms about, reminiscent of a young Elizabeth Taylor in The Last Time I Saw Paris. Though as much as I prayed she would scamper off into the rain and let me be, I knew I’d have no such luck. I’d have to bravely endure the performance. And I did. I spiritlessly viewed her theatrics until I could no longer keep my own bitterness securely tethered. And in the heat of the moment, I howled back revelations, confiding in my difficulties and financial discrepancies, assuming empathy but discovering not a single shred of remorse. Not even a little understanding. My truths caused more mischief than their intended good. I ceased emotion after that since she insisted upon taking centre stage for the rest of the performance. And in doing so I caught something sincere about her tirade this time. She was in such real and honest distress. No longer was she whimpering with the intent to garner attention, those tears reflected hard and actual bleak sadness.
And it was I who squarely caused her such unfathomable anguish.
Many people throughout my pitiful life have made me cry, some much more than others, so this is a pain I know well and deep and a pain I’d never wish upon anyone. But to think that my mere presence alone is causing her such grief? How can I actually live with myself? Knowing that each breath I take is a breathe too many. That every sound I utter and don’t is a knife to the heart, one thousand times. Now not only do I need to liberate myself from this cage but I must also relinquish my oppressor of her sufferings. To free us both I need to remove myself from the equation yet I’m powerless do so right now. Then again I could resign to living in my car. Homelessness. Arctic nights with my sidekick and a blanket to share in a crammed back seat isn’t as torturous as the shelter her roof provides.
And just as I write this letter to you Maria and begin sympathising with her, through the tightly shut door of my room I hear her shrieking yet again, now threatening to kick me out. And all because I abandoned my red heels on the shoe rack by the door. And after I was brutally honest over my situation, left myself completely vulnerable and exposed like that, something I never do.
I just want to sleep and never wake up,