I force my eyes to stay on mom as I kiss my fingers and touch the door. I run to my room even when I know she will cry for seventeen more minutes. I enter my room and hurriedly but silently lock the door. My lower lip trembles and salt water starts to flood my eyes. I move around in my room in circles rotating my shoulders and begin to jump on my feet while I punch the air lightly; every punch a little harder than the last one. I close my eyes and concentrate on my body, on my every punch, on how my legs have gained momentum. I focus my entire power in my right upper arm and clench my jaw as I punch and slightly rotate my body to the left. I do this precisely fifteen times before moving to my left arm and continue to loudly exhale when I punch and deeply inhale when I retract my arm. My muscles start to sting then gradually burn, 'stop, the job's done' my mind agrees with my body.
I land heavily on my bed and hide under the blue blanket. I keep my eyes closed and remain still, hearing the clock's tick-tock. I have avoided the crying, but despite the exhaustion sprinting across my body, I know I have also lost all my sleep.
I am unable to sleep until four in the morning, but I soon wake up at six; tired with a headache touching the mark somewhere between moderate and severe. I half open my eyes and partially sit up supporting my body weight with my elbows. The light sun rays enter my room brightening it up, however, making me fade as in a few minutes I would be expected to get up and get ready for school. But after last night I have other plans for the day, so I show myself in some severe pain, and that is it, my job is done.
My dad enters my room while wrinkling his upturned nose as he yawns. He licks his upper lips and runs his fingers through his hair, making his intensely sleek hairstyle a little bearable. "Aria, do you want to miss school?" he looks at me.
I look away and purse my lips. "It's the second time in two weeks, try to be more regular from now on," he softly smiles at me.
I nod and exhale deeply, 'twice I saw mom crying in these two weeks, sorry couldn't bring myself to go to school, I promise I will try harder, but you wouldn't want to hear it out loud, right dad' I inaudibly answer him.
The click of high heels becomes audible when mom comes up to dad from behind. "Ethan," she says and touches his shoulder. He turns around and gives her a big smile. Her cheeks lift too, and her lips part, my face duplicates hers. "Good morning mom," I say.
Her smile grows tight, "morning," she looks in my direction but not at me. Her face is glowing and will deceive anyone into mistaking it for liveliness, but I know it's just her extensive Korean skincare routine.
"Can I talk to you?" mom looks at dad.
"Yeah, one second," he says and looks at me, "get some rest okay" he smiles widely.
"Sure thing dad," I give him a wider smile.
Mom and dad have left for work; I heard a click ten minutes ago, and since then, I haven't heard any sound in the house. They must have thought I was asleep when all I was trying to do was to press my face to my pillow so hard that it would check my headache. Well, it didn't so now I just am stuck with a nasty headache and the visuals from the night before.
I close my eyes to fight the memories, the struggle of keeping myself from shouting my apologies to mom and ask her what I can do to make it less painful, to ask her to punish me and fighting the thought that she blames me, she hates me, and I can never do anything to make it better for her. The pounding in my head increases, and I yearn for the relief and sleep I lost six years ago. I want to open my eyes, let out a breath, lie to myself that mom is okay; maybe it was liveliness, after all, smile and get out of the bed, but a visual begins to scream in my mind. I am not sure if it's from last night or from recently at all, but still, it feels fresh.
Mom is crying again, I am hiding behind her room's door, my hand is tightly pressed against my quivering mouth, my eyes are acutely fixed on mom's tormented face, and I am counting seconds, a saltwater drop leaves her eyes at one, at two, at three, at five, seven eight nine ten and blood.
I open my eyes.
It was from the night mom harmed herself. It was from the night I harmed myself.
There was nothing different about that night; mom was crying, the two photographs were tightly crushed between her hands while my heart was slowly disappearing into oblivion. However, I didn't notice something was missing that night, something precious, something underrated. Control. Mom had lost her control that night, and I had lost mine. It is odd how meticulously I remember that night, I have always believed that the visuals will go away, my memory will fade with time, but it doesn't, and only if possible, it keeps getting stronger.
My mind transports me back to my room, and I realize I am scratching the scar on my left forearm. I still have to hide my scar with foundation or full sleeves, but mom took care of hers; she succeeded in her attempts to show it was never there, that that night never happened.
I inhale deeply and close my eyes to provide my eyelids a few seconds of rest. I sigh in relief when I only see darkness instead of bright colored, fully HD, detailed visuals. I blink my eyes a couple of times before letting them stare at the random drops, spurts, and sprays of all the shades of colors on the white ceiling above me. I had this especially done when our house was repainted last year; I stare at the ceiling a lot, so I thought it would be nice to see something as messy as my vacant mind, but it didn't turn out messy, it turned out pretty and calming so now it just keeps mocking me all the time.
'I know you often wonder when mom began despising me, was it the moment when you were coming out of her area, or one day she simply stopped and thought to herself; you know what, I don't think I love my child' my mind says.
'She doesn't hate me,' I whisper inaudibly.
'Well, I know when she began hating you' it ignores me.
'Shut the hell up' I inaudibly shout and force myself up.