Dirty New Dress

Today was a good day. I felt happy and accomplished. When my mother came home, I even twirled around and showed her my dress. She laughed and called me beautiful. Everything was perfect today, and nothing could have ruined it.

Nothing should have ruined it.  

I heard my father shouting at my mother. 

I scooted closer to my room's door, wishing on my soul he was just talking normally but in a higher voice. But, he was shouting at her, they were talking about divorce. It was something that happened because of me. 

It's quite funny when you know they'll not last but when you hear them say it out loud, it's harder than how you thought how it would be. It's like the universe is making fun of you. Playing with pieces that hurt even when touched, but they throw it around. 

For the past year, the bathroom has been my hiding place when I cry, so that nobody can see me cry. 

They won't kill me if they catch me crying, but, they have never caught me, so I'm not sure.

I rush into the bathroom and curl up on the dirty floor, the new dress long forgotten. 

I wish to wake up from this nightmare, but it's not one. 

I slam my palm onto my mouth as a gasp escapes, but tears don't make a sound, so I let them flow. 

This silence echoes till I can calm myself down, eventually. 

Earlier, I used to imagine someone coming into the bathroom and holding me close. Someone who would be just as hurt, or more, when they saw me hurt. Someone who would not let a tear escape. 

I unknowingly stopped, maybe my mind knew it before me, that it wouldn't ever be possible. 

They were a pair, that never synced. I remember being four years old. It was a year I don't remember much of, but what I remember, kills me. I remember them arguing after they picked me up from school. Four-year-old me never understood what was happening but she knew not to speak when it did happen and it happened quite so frequently. 

So she sat in the background, losing bits of her childhood she never knew existed. 

Maybe that was the start of me, me being me. 

Or maybe I did not comprehend that, and me being me started when my grandfather locked me out of the house for doing something I don't remember when I was five. Or when he shouted at me and slapped me when I troubled my brother when we were six.

Maybe me being me, started when I was born, when they saw, it was a girl.

Because my grave wasn't filled to the tip for a long time, something could have stopped it. But nothing, more like, no one ever did. Now it doesn't look like a grave, it resembles more of a hill.

I distinctly remember going to the teacher, crying, telling her, that I didn't want to go back home, but the nun told me I was my mother's only support. Maybe I should have told her, that I was no support, support doesn't sit on the bathroom floor when it's needed.

They stopped, I thought the future would be better, but I was wrong.

Whatever followed killed the rest of me, It left a body with no soul.

Sometimes I wish I could be the younger me again, how young? when it wasn't like this, but it was always like this. 

Then I wish to be as young as the day I was born and kill myself and end it all.

Every day, I wish, everything in me had a chance to be what she wanted and not what was wanted of her. 

But I know, I would never create another me.  

Because me can only be created, nobody wishes to be me. 

~ work of fiction