I try to feel nothing, yet now I feel everything as I’m forced to acknowledge the consequence of a poorly made decision. All because I wanted to experience something… anything but feeling alone.
Abandoned.
Insignificant.
You did this to yourself.
You only have yourself to blame.
Much like the walls around me, the words circle around and around and around…unforgiving accusations and blame. I slam my hands against the sides of my head and cover my ears, trying to make them stop, but it doesn’t work. Out of frustration, I thread my fingers into my hair and yank as hard as I can.
Shut up.
Shut up.
Where do you think you’re going anyway?
They don’t want you.
Shut up!
They won’t even look at you.
I choke back a sob and shake my head, refusing to hear them. To believe them.
Several minutes pass before the harsh murmurs finally lower to faint white noise in my head. I peel my eyes from the marbled floor, and only then do I realize I’m standing in front of my parents’ bedroom door.
That’s when I feel it. A tiny glimmer of hope. My heart begins to race as it flickers to life inside me.
I need you.
I reach desperately for the words, fumble for them as I try to grab hold, but they are out of reach. Always out of reach. Uncontrollable tears stream down my cheeks as my mind splits in two and begins its battle.
You stupid girl.
They want nothing to do with you.
I need you.
I need you.
I inhale deeply, trying to gather my strength. I have to win this war. I will not let them ruin me. I cannot let them win. I refuse.
Just as I lift my arm to knock, raised voices drown out the ones in my head, leaving my closed fist hanging in the air.
“So you’re leaving again? With your whore of the month?”
“Diane.”
I swallow deeply in response to his calculated tone. Although the door separates us, I can picture my father’s expression perfectly. Cold, callous eyes narrowing in my mother’s direction. Jaw ticking wildly in frustration. Yet, when he speaks, his voice remains unaffected. As though he’s merely swatting words like flies, when in actuality, he’s pounding them with a mallet.
He sighs deeply. “It’s business. You know that.”
“Right,” my mother scoffs. “It’s always business, Tristan. Never any twenty-something extracurriculars, right?”
Her words are slurred—as usual. I can picture her, too. Cheeks reddened by the alcohol, pouty mouth curved to the floor—stress carving lines into her skin that will be erased come Monday—wavy blonde hair that refuses to cooperate, and her light brown eyes? Puffy from tears and so very sad.
I am her mirror image in every way.
My father’s bored tone turns glacial. “A twenty-something extracurricular as you once were?”
The slamming of a suitcase jars my entire body, and I place my hand flat against the door to steady myself.
“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Diane. I didn’t ask to be saddled with a wife who mistakenly believes the world revolves around her and no one else. Nor did I ask to be burdened by the responsibility of life with a kid. All I asked was for you to be at my side when required, for you to service my needs whenever necessary, and to stay on birth control while doing it. Which you purposefully did not do.”
My mother’s soft sobs become desperate wails the more he speaks.
“You trapped me in this marriage, Diane. We both know that. And because of that, you are nothing to me. You don’t deserve to know what I choose to do with my time.”
The suitcase hits the floor. “I do, however, take satisfaction in knowing you have a sixteen-year-old reminder that the old adage is true: money can’t buy happiness, no matter how many millions it may be. Your child is nothing more than the result of a night I wish had never happened.”
His words are like a punch to the gut, forcing every breath of air from my body upon impact. And with it, all hope inside me is extinguished. I begin to tremble with its loss, and suddenly, I’m so cold. My chest throbs and aches, as though there’s a black hole where my heart should be.
I feel it spreading throughout my body…devouring the will to live.
I’m so tired.
Tired of trying.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of hoping.
I no longer hear the desperate cry of I need you because there is no longer need.