opinions on my piece?
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the fireworks continue one after the other, annoying, splendid, vulgar. a waste of resources sent up into the sky to drown out other sounds, and somewhere below, i wonder if joy is hiding under the bed. like every dog does on evenings like this. but i can't hear her, not with all the noise outside.
i can't see the lights either. i can’t see the celebrations spilling out from the community hall, the strings of fairy lights and the paper cups, or some aunt dancing badly to music too loud for the house. i can't see any of it. my mother is blocking my view.
she’s sitting on the opposite side of the couch, hands clasped over her face. and i’m waiting for her to wriggle free in distress; waiting for some sign that she’s actually crying, because i have never seen my mother cry before. not at grandpa's funeral, not when the glass of her favourite stove broke apart. but i’ve seen her sit like this. i used to think it was her style of mourning. but tonight i think it’s just her best disguise. she’s been quiet. dad hasn’t.
the old stick is loose around his hand like something that will break free, and his eyes are on me, measuring. i don't think he'll hit me more. i’ve already told him what he wants to hear. i told him i wouldn't do it again; even if the words clawed up raw through my barbed throat. i don't know if he believes me. i think it’s hard to when i had promised the same before too.
they were kinder last time though. mom even told the nurses it was the tin roof, some kind of accident with the edges. it all sounded so plausible, i almost believed her myself. dad just booked me an appointment, relieved, i guess, that it wasn’t drugs. we even watched a movie that rainy evening, the two of us, pretending that nothing was happening, that something small and nondescript under my sleeve wasn't going to define the rest of my life. i think i knew then that it was a kindness, that long sleeves made wonderful liars.
for a throat, however, it does not. that’s the difference with this one. a throat has no roof. no protection. no stupid story about cat fights.
dad keeps asking me about what people are going to say, what he'll have to tell them if i really do it, if he has to explain how a daughter of his could go like that. it’s as if he wants me to name him a punishment big enough to account for his embarrassment. i know he wants the answer. why. and i want to know too. but i can't remember what it was that i wanted to say when mom came upstairs and looked down my neck. i wasn’t even trying to hide it. maybe i should have. she demanded answers. but my mind went empty. even as dad came out just to drag me by the wrist, ready to kick me out.
even the small, "you're hurting me" that's been rattling around in my head for hours didn’t come out. my throat swallowed it whole, and all i managed in the end was humiliating pleas, a desperate insistence on staying, on changing, telling him i won't do it again because i knew he'd stop hitting me if i only said the right things. because i just want the wood to stop finding new places to leave its mark.
i’d never been frightened of my father before. but right now, somehow i don't think i've ever met someone as terrifying. he watches me carefully, measuring me, once more. comes to a decision, it seems, although it isn't an easy one. it’s not for him, really, but for my mother, for the rest of the house, for the rest of us, still living here.
you sleep with your mother from now on, he says, as if it's a fated decision.
i don't argue. and somewhere in the house, joy finally barks, muffled by a door. for a moment, i want to ask if i could sleep next to her instead, small and warm and needing nothing from me. but i don't. i don’t look up as my mother leaves the couch for the comfort of the cornered sink, either. maybe she’s washing her face like every other night, or rubbing off any signs of tears on her cheek. whatever it is, i think maybe neither of us wants to see the other's face right now. i don't watch my father make a bed out of my mother's cushions, either. instead, i fix my eyes on the window, where no one else is watching, and i see the fireworks for the first time, see the lights bloom colorfully all over the sky.
i can hear the party still going strong, the music, everything, spilling out into the street, five hours late for the occasion. and for the briefest moment, i wonder if it would’ve been any different if i was the kind of daughter who went out.
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yes the small caps is intentional, any advice, opinions??