That day, we fought for almost an hour. The rain was falling silently on the leaves and the grey sky was streaked with black clouds pouring all their reserves. I stood on my ground refusing to give in to despair. My skin was burning with agony, and my heart was already consolidating my broken piece. Yet the intensity of our sharp words, would find a way to intrude into our protective shell and would ignite our wounds in an excruciating agony. And when my limbs started feeling heavy, I stormed out of the house, which was supposed to be ours, into the pouring rain, running through the wet places towards the home of my childhood.
I crossed the threshold of the compound and find myself standing on the lawn, which was once my safe heaven. Like a time machine, I was catapulted back in past, and could see a young me running across the lawn, with a ball in hand, towards the front door. But something held me back as soon as I reached for the doorknob. From behind the curtains, I looked through the glass towards the hallway, where I could see a man of heavy build holding my mother roughly and pushing her occasionally. She was struggling to put up a failed resistance, and was sobbing silently, being cautious so that nothing reaches my ears. And then, there were hushed conversations followed by the man, slamming my mother on the table. The noise was indeed alarming, but he timed it perfectly with the crackling thunder as if no one could have understood, what was happening behind the closed door. The man was my father, whom I never considered mine.
Yet, after sixteen years I am standing in front of the house peering through the curtains the same way, as I once had. But this time, I knew my mother was not there, nor there was any picture of hers.
He burnt it all.
I turned back, in a haste waiting to run away through this cold rain, to some place where I will not be attacked with harsh words nor, there would be any fights. This was also not my home as the soul inside it has departed long ago, and there was no more the warmth of assurance, just a cold silence running through the labyrinth of the rooms.
I turned back and ran through the rain back to the home of our immediate past, to bid him the final goodbye, only to look at his eyes searching desperately for mine. There was regret and agony, burning inside him, yet the warmth of his gaze was enough to reach my skin, just the same way my mother looked at me that day, when I did not return for a long time. I felt as if the present and past has resonated as he embraced me, just like in the past the wounded women did, never caring about herself.
©Jumbled Letters 2018.