I sat in the Remoshè Café, my eyes glued to the worn wooden floor as if it held the answers to my turmoil. Delilah was across from me, her presence like a storm cloud hanging over my heart. I dared not look into her eyes—eyes that radiated a mix of pity and confusion. The weight of her gaze was unbearable, pressing down on me like a heavy winter coat. Yet, the nagging curiosity prickled at the nape of my neck, demanding attention. I stole a fleeting glance at her face, a canvas of emotions I knew I would never forget. Her frown, etched with a hint of disgust, painted a picture of judgment, her mouth slightly agape as if unable to comprehend the madness swirling around us. A “madman,” I was sure she deemed me, trapped in a whirlwind of my own creation.
I shut my eyes tight, desperate to escape the piercing scrutiny. Tears threatened to spill as the words tangled in my throat, yearning to break free: “I… I… I’m sor—” But before I could complete my apology, a voice boomed like thunder, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “Hello! Welcome to Remoshè Café. What can I get you tonight?” The waiter’s boisterous cheer sliced through the heavy atmosphere, startling me back into reality.
“Just a glass of water while we decide,” Delilah replied, her voice laced with an authority that made even the merriest of souls step back. It was an iron fist wrapped in velvet—a kindness that stung. Unable to bear the rising tide of emotions, I stood up abruptly, my legs carrying me away as though they had a mind of their own. I blurted out a few fragmentary words, a frantic escape from Delilah’s impossible questions. I felt like a coward, fleeing from the very confrontation I had invited. I was adrift in a sea of confusion, unable to answer the storm of questions swirling in my own mind.
Why did I want to end it all? It felt like a serene escape offered to me on a silver platter, smooth and enticing. Yet, this state of bewilderment wrapped around me like a thick fog, suffocating and relentless.
I fled to the one place that felt familiar, the one I called home, though it hardly qualified as such. This wasn’t a fairytale; reality pulled me back to its unforgiving embrace. I began to rethink my choices. Delilah had taken care of me, gave me dry clothes and took me to the cafe to talk. But I still decided to postpone the big talk. As I rounded the corner and our shabby house came into view, my heart plummeted. There she was—my mother, being taken away in an ambulance, her frailty illuminated against the harsh glare of emergency lights. I fell to my knees, the world around me blurring as despair crashed over me like a tidal wave. Powerless, I felt the ground beneath me shift; what was the purpose of living in a life that offered no respite?
Then, from the periphery, a shiny figure approached, bursting through my fog of turmoil. “Is that your mom, kid?” the man asked, his voice a mix of concern and pity. I could only nod, my gaze stubbornly fixed on the ambulance. The man grasped my hand, urging me to follow him. In a daze, I complied, allowing inertia to guide me. Before I knew it, we were inside the ambulance, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling my lungs. I turned toward my mother, who lay almost ethereally, her face peaceful yet pale. Panic surged through me. “What happened?” I stammered as the sirens wailed around us.
“A neighbor called,” the paramedic explained, urgency lacing his tone. “She saw someone lying on the floor, and when she got closer, she realized your mother had fainted and hit her head.” His words echoed in my mind, each syllable striking me with the weight of reality. This was not a dream; it was my life unraveling thread by agonizing thread.
After that day, a flicker of determination ignited within me. I realized I needed to step into the role of caretaker for my mother. A small glimmer of hope arose, like the dawn breaking after a long, dark night. I envisioned building a new relationship with her, one founded on love and understanding—a bridge over the chasm that had formed between us. All the while, I clung to the thought that maybe, just maybe, this would help her recognize that her flaws had created barriers, isolating us in our own sorrow.
As I watched her in that hospital bed, frail and vulnerable, I couldn’t help but pray fervently for her recovery. I ached for a world where she no longer suffered. Mothers are human beings too, perhaps the most emotional of all, wielding the strongest weapon of all: empathy. I didn’t know if my mother possessed that quality, but I hoped the essence of her role in my life would transform her into the nurturing figure I longed for.
When she finally awakened, a warm wave of happiness washed over me, lifting my spirit like a lark soaring into a sunlit sky. Her tired eyes met mine, and she offered a faint smile—a flicker of resilience amidst exhaustion, as if she were weary of all that life had thrown at her yet determined to push through. As she gazed out the window, I wondered whom she was trying to find the strength for… and then she turned her gaze back to me. The doctor entered, announcing that she would need to stay for observation. Days turned into a blur until finally, the moment of her discharge arrived—a fragile threshold between our past pains and future hopes.
I brought her home to a space I had been mending with all my might. It was a humble haven, yet it glowed with potential for comfort and connection. When she saw the effort I had poured into our home, a genuine smile broke through her earlier turmoil, illuminating her face. At that moment, I knew I would not only take care of her but give her a renewed reason to fight for our bond.
I just hoped that this newfound sense of closeness would bloom, blossoming into resilience in our relationship, like flowers breaking through the stubborn frost of winter.
The day arrived when I had to step back into school and face Delilah. I replayed our last encounter over and over in my mind—the moment I had fled like a deer startled by a hunter’s call, leaving her stranded amidst her confusion and concern. Her face was forever etched in my memory, a canvas painted with emotions I couldn’t bear to confront.
As I prepared for school, I ventured into my mother’s bedroom, where she slept soundly, wrapped in a cocoon of rest. “Bye, Mom! I’m off to school,” I whispered, careful not to disturb her.
“Bye, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice a soft lull in the quiet room. Just as I reached for the door, I turned back, letting my heart speak without reservation. “I love you.”
“Mmmm, go, you’ll be late,” she replied, her tone sleep-laden yet reminiscent of a gentle breeze in the warm sun. But as I closed the door behind me, the weight of her nonchalant response settled in my chest like a stone. How long had it been since I’d heard those words returned with warmth? The ache of unfulfilled affection resonated deeply within me, intensifying the longing I felt for our bond.
Lost in a fog of thoughts, I caught sight of Delilah at a distance. She approached, and my heart raced with the onslaught of possibilities. What would I say? “I’m sorry, Delilah,” “How are you?” “Are we okay?” I stood, rooted to the spot, unable to utter a sound as she drew closer, my eyes fixated on the ground.
Then, suddenly, I felt a warm touch graze my left cheek—a gentle reminder that I wasn’t alone. Delilah’s hand, with its familiar scent of jasmine, ignited a flicker of warmth within me. A tear escaped, rolling down my face and pooling in her palm. When I finally looked up, I saw understanding reflected in her eyes—a silent assurance that in her presence, I had found comfort.
She enveloped me in a hug that felt like a fortress of warmth, and I melted into it, feeling a sense of happiness surge within me, illuminating the darkness that had clouded my heart. I closed my eyes and wished we could linger there forever, in that precious state of peace. She gently tapped my back, whispering soft assurances. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here now.”
Delilah—my steadfast beacon in the raging storm of my life. As she pulled back, I noticed others eyeing us, their curious gazes piercing through my fragile bubble of warmth. I stepped away slightly, trying to dismiss their stares. “It’s just a hug,” I said, but deep down, I couldn’t explain the whirlpool of emotions I was navigating. Together, we walked toward class, drifting into familiar conversations about trivial things. Despite the turmoil, I felt a tinge of happiness. Delilah remained the unwavering light in the shadows, a constant I could rely upon—a light that would never dim.
Then came the sound that signaled the end of my prison day. The final bell rang, releasing a tidal wave of relief as I anticipated the sweet release of freedom. The weight of accumulated homework loomed over me, but all I wished for was a quiet homecoming, where my mother would be resting peacefully. I bid Delilah farewell, but as we faced opposite directions, I caught her mumbling words like a soft breeze—“We need to talk.”
I awkwardly waved, shrugging off the concern lingering in her statement, and continued my walk home, uncertain of the burden that awaited me.
I finally arrived home, feeling the fatigue settle heavily on my shoulders. I longed for nothing more than to collapse into stillness. With the memory of Miss Alice’s mountain of homework haunting my thoughts, I opened the front door, a familiar tension knotting in my stomach at the thought of what lay beyond. But this time, courage surged within me. I believed our home would be as I left it—if not better.
Yet when I stepped inside, uncertainty gripped my heart as I braced myself for the reality that awaited.
I saw mom seated on the couch. It seemed like she had decided to rot there like some neglected potatoes. She was watching her favourite reality show with such passion as if she was there. “No Jake, can’t you see Tamar is single and your type!!!” She screamed out as I walked in. I stood there, in awe of the sight before me. I didn’t know what to do but give her a fake smile and a, “I’m home!”. I quickly passed by before she even acknowledged my presence. After I was already in my room, she called out to me, “Chlo! Can you make me some tea?” “Sure.” I said. But my thoughts were different. It kinda hurt that she didn’t ask what the normal moms ask; “How was your day? Are you ok? What did you learn today?” But I guess I had a special case with me.
I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I was sad. But I just did what she asked of me. Out of pure respect for her as my mother. Maybe I am also obliged to love my mother. But I knew my head would differentiate my mother and my mom and Ann Hartley. Another is someone you respect and love, a mom is the person you love and care for with all your heart while Ann Hartley is the name of your mother. I think I love my mother by default, I dislike my mom and I loathe Ann Hartley.
My mother continued her endless rants about her tv show. She is usually angry when she doesn’t see me by her side and she wouldn’t care if I had important work to do. She wouldn’t care if I needed to do such work in a peaceful environment. If I go against what she wants, she will treat me as though I am not her daughter and gossip foul things about me. Back then she used to do that with dad. She would tell me how disrespectful I was and my father would get a bad picture of my behavior. But now I guess she can’t do that anymore. There is no dad that she can report to. I laughed. My quiet chuckle caught my mother’s attention. Her mood changed abruptly. “What’s so funny?” she said with a tremendous change of mood. The frown on her face wiped off the hysterical laughter she had from the cheap entertainment displayed before her. “Nothing, just a sneeze..” I said as I rubbed off my nose, faking to avoid her drama. That simple question would have escalated into something extreme for no ultimate reason. She just likes causing war and shouts. Living with her is a constant psychological exercise.
“You always make me feel like I am less of a daughter and more like a prisoner in your mind games. On top of everything, your big mouth always makes me look like the worst, most disrespectful person in front of Adam. He probably didn’t take me with him because he thinks I am nothing but a bad kid, a burden. Even when I had limited time with him, you always found a way to butt in and call me disrespectful, ungrateful, dishonest, stupid. You really think your millions of insults didn’t hurt. You really think I do not remember. Your words hurt me. I get so angry but I can’t even lash out in time, you know why, because he will think it’s all true. You just spit out pure lies, weakening others without any consideration, understanding or empathy for their feelings. You don’t know how much it hurts to be in your shadow of pain while your light of suffering continues to grow. I am still a kid and i dont have to go through this. What did I do to not deserve a normal life? Huh!?”
I jumped back into reality. I was lost in my anger. I didn’t know what to do. I was seated, giving my mom an intense glare without realising it. She looked at me, calling out my name, waiting for a response. I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt so overwhelmed by the emotions I carried in my heart. I mustered up the courage and strength to take my backpack and leave with a “I have homework” muttered out of my lips. I ran to the bedroom and locked the door before she could give me a proper response or lecture. I sat on the bedroom floor, my body against the door. I looked at Adam’s closet, missing his scent, presence. His smile; one that always gave me reassurance that it will all be ok once I leave this hellhole. But he left before I did. I guess I couldn’t blame him too. I would if I could. But I thought he was different. He is just like dad. When things get hard, he leaves. I began to feel that sharp pain in my heart, the rock in my throat, the needles in my eyes. I couldn’t bear the pain of being abandoned. Left with the worst character in the fairytale. But this feels more like a horror. I felt scared of what would happen next; there was no happy ending for the likes of me.
The following weekend, I woke up with an overwhelming migraine. The fatigue was mild, but I still felt ill. I began to think of mom and how she treats me. The unnecessary lectures she has given me endlessly in the past. I began to feel enraged. I remembered the day she told me I am not allowed to have friends. I remember the day she told me I couldn’t read novels. I remember the day she forced me to act happy when dad was around. Things that my peers don’t have to deal with because they just receive the complete opposite treatment I am given daily. I began to visualize a few of our arguments. The day started talking back to her. As much as it took much courage for me to reply to her lectures, she still knew a way to leave me speechless.The day she said, “You know all friends are bad! But that’s all you like, having friends!!! They are the reason you are this bad!” I began to think of the way she had driven away all of my best friends, talking trash about them even when I think they made a good impression on her. “Just because you have been lonely and perfect all your life, doesn’t mean I have to follow in your footsteps!” As if I would have the courage to say that. Instead I said, “But mom, I have no friends..” As much as that was a half lie, I wanted to see her reaction. I thought she would acknowledge how much she had affected me and my social skills. Social skills that are drifting away. I may still have Delilah, but what about when I leave that school? What she said will forever shock me. “Yes, but you are easily persuaded. You are so naive and oblivious to the real world. You can still make friends in the future. Friends destroy you.”
I was so tired of arguing that I wanted to give up. I wanted to give up again just like when Adam abandoned us. But I realised the feeling I have isn’t betrayal, it’s hate and anger. I’m sorry God, but it is not easy to cling to what is good. I picked up the thing that was closest to me and hit her with it. I hit as I spoke my heart out. I endlessly exclaimed that I want my freedom and joy. I wanted to tell her that I feel so much discomfort whenever I am with her. Her face fills me with rage and her words make the small candle in my heat turn into a blaze. I kept on hitting her but she had no injury. It didn’t make sense at the time but I just continued. I liked the way her face showed such a remorseful and apologetic expression. It made me feel fulfilled. But for the weirdest reason, a tear escaped my eye. A small tear made me begin wailing in sadness. The pain and agony I experienced was something I couldn’t explain. But one thing was clear; I had become MY FATHER.
I was back in my bed, out of the trance. It felt like I was in my memory physically. I was in the position that I left my memory self in. What was this? A lucid dream? But all the questions that raided my mind stopped when I began to think of how much I resembled HIM. I was in shock. “But it felt so… No! Nooo! I refuse to end up like him. “ I began to cry and cry. But something was different this time. My eyes were red and puffy. It was so bad that it was painful to blink. But… my smile was present this time. I looked ahead to the mirror and knew the truth. I had gone mad.
To be continued