Sunday, November 1, 2009

I come home to a home where there is fighting - where smiles are fleeting and moments of mutual agreement are scarce. There is no time to worry about love or about friendship; only doing well in school and keeping the two figureheads pleased. They throw words, harsh and pointed, from forked tongues and rough skin.

Some of us, we do not cry when such vulgar things are uttered, but often we do - because though these moments are plentiful, we realize the more these things are said, the less likely they are to take them back.

When I was younger, they used to creep into my room; sit on the side of my bed as I wept, and apologized. And as I grew older, I realized that accepting these halfhearted apologies was out of obligation. You could never say, "No, I do not forgive you for the things you have said." We have to apologize though, us two, the fruits of the womb, brother and sister, growing further apart as the days progress; four years in difference. We will always apologize. I do not know if he still means it, but I have stopped.

I am sorry is a lie as to I am fine.

Sometimes, it is not always words, but a strike - the sharp sound of one layer of skin joining with the other, a mark of red left behind. Just so you know: shame is a five-fingered print. They used to apologize after that, sometimes cry and tell me that they did it in a moment of blind anger. But I have grown to feel nothing, nothing at all.

I never say a word - only taking the punishment. Flinching, hesitating - refusal gains something far worse. I was born into a family where this is discipline, where you are taught that this is something you deserve.

One day, I will scream out "Do not touch me!" and I will run, as fast as my legs can carry me, and I will not look back.

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