The sound of glass shattering against a wall, flooded by screams, was the sound of my childhood. It’s something I’ve taken along with me in my life, almost as a comfort. But I always knew there had to be something wrong with it. None of my friends knew that sound. In fact as I grew older, the girls in my class shuttered when anything as small as a pen would fall. They made a game out of trying to scare each other. But I never understood why.
As I continued to grow, the sound grew to be both more and less. More bottles broken, less screams. Instead rather, they were muffled cries behind closed doors. Everytime the cries would be broken by my angry drunken father, yelling at my sobbing mother. I could barely listen to these sounds, instead tending to my baby brother, as he screamed for mama. That was when I began finally feeling something again. I’d hug him close and cry with him. It wasn’t fair.
I didn’t see any family like mine growing up. I used to wander the town at night, carrying my tiny brother on my back, to escape the sounds. We’d travel through neighborhoods, looking through windows and in backyards, watching different families quietly. We began keeping track of one family in particular. We would sit on the side of the road, sharing a piece of bread and bottle of milk, as we listened to this family. They’d laugh, and talk about their days. At night you could hear the sounds of pouty children, begging for one more bedtime story.
We heard a lot of those. We heard about the beautiful princess, who pricked her finger and fell asleep, only to be awaken by true love. We heard of a poor girl falling in love with a prince and becoming a princess. But, my favorite was always the one about the mermaid. The young girl was so in love with a man, she sacrificed her own voice and life, just to not even be recognized by the man, to watch him fall in love with another woman. I adored that one because I could relate the most.
One night they found my brother and I out on the street, and invited us in. They fed us, and we played many games. They had a gorgeous young daughter, around my age. And at the end of the night as their mother played the piano, her and I danced around their kitchen together. It felt like an eternity.
After that we joined them for bedtime stories, and they allowed us to sleep over. The girl and I snuck out, into a clearing in the woods. We watched the stars and talked the night away. That was the first time I ever felt safe, I wanted to stay there with her, in that moment, forever.
The sun began rising that morning when I got a nudge on my shoulder, the girl, leaning on her arm, smiled over at me. We stayed there quietly a moment before getting up, and trudging back to her house.
When we entered we were welcomed by a voice in the barely lit house. Her father stood in the doorway as we entered. He asked us what we had been doing. Why we were out so late. The girl cringed towards the door, as she covered her face with her arms, but it was too late. The sound of a fist hitting her face cut through the morning air. I watched as the girl fell back, her father turned to me and lifted a finger to his lips, signalling to me to remain silent. He then whispered, “Grab your brother you disgusting peasants daughter, and get out.” I nodded out of pure terror and complied.
Running upstairs, I shook my brother lightly, before just picking him up, and running out of the house. I looked back once, which was my worst mistake. The father was on top of the girl, I watched him grab her by her hair, and slam her face into the wood floor, blood dripped from the side of the girls face.
My brother had finally woken up, I ran out, and let go off him on the edge of the road. I told him to stay still as I ran back inside the house. Immediately, I ran for the kitchen, seeing the girl sobbing, as awful things I don’t believe I can write here, were done to her. Upon seeing this, I knew what to do. I grabbed a bottle off the counter, and did what I’d seen my father do many times, I slammed it against the mans head, shattering it.
The man looked back, and stood up, he began to slowly approach me. Scurrying back, I grabbed the neck of the broken bottle, one of the sharp edges cut my finger. He began to get closer, and in a moment of adrenaline rushing through me, I plunged the sharp edge of the bottle into the mans neck, sending him back, stumbling into a wall. I heard him yell, and out of the corner of my vision watched the girl stare at me in shock. I didn’t care. I grabbed another sharp piece of the glass, sending it into the mans chest, not just once, but many times. Eventually I lost count and reality came back to me. It felt as if I was watching the scene from outside of my own body. The girl looked on in horror. That’s when I heard somebody stumbling down the stairs, I got up and ran out the door, grabbing my brother. We never returned to that street again.
We returned home, burnt out. I hadn’t an idea as to what to do. It was obvious to anyone there I had killed a man. But to everybody except that girls knowledge, I killed a good man. Nobody would believe her. I was in trouble. I went to run to my mother as we entered our house. I wanted to ask for her help. But as I threw open the door, I saw a horrifying scene. My mother, was no longer there. Rather her body was, hanging from the ceiling. Shaking, I walked up to her, feeling for a pulse. Nothing, there was no pulse. On her dresser sat a letter, addressed to my brother and I. Next to it sat money, lots of it. The letter only had written, “I’m sorry, take this and run.”
I took the letter and the money, still in shock, and told my brother to pack. He was confused, angry to have been left out, and questioning why I wouldn’t let him see mama. But when the tears falling down my face, he quickly obliged and ran to pack. That afternoon, with the little belongings we had, mama’s note, some food, and money, we ran. We ran as far as we could.
Not just weeks but years were spent on the road. I began to pick up small jobs on the street. Illegal tasks here and there, petty thieveries, pickpocketing, and some other less than honorable jobs. Eventually, some poor single mother, took us into her small dusty apartment. She was polite, her and her son. He was around the same age as my brother. They got along very well. Instead of attending school I began to look after her son and my brother, everyday. When she’d return home I’d leave to go to my small jobs. The lady was very polite, like a second mother. She’d tell us about her day in the clinic she ran, as she’d cook us small dinners. The scent of warm food always filled the place. We managed to get by as a family. We were quite the broken family, but that’s what it was.
One day the small lady came home rather late, I remember bring huddled with the younger boys, on the floor sleeping. It was a winters night, and especially frigid. I heard the sound of the door turning, and the light click of her heels as she stumbled towards the kitchen. I gently got up, and made my way to the kitchen behind her.
She was sitting there at the table, sobbing in the corner of the kitchen, her knees to her chest. I remember approaching her, sitting across from her. I can still feel her hand on the side of my face, as she shook her head and said, “Darling, never trust a man, they will always hurt you.”
It was weeks later when she began getting morning sickness. Not more than a month later had she grown a bump. We quickly learned she was pregnant, even though she wouldn’t tell us. Rather she’d spend her evenings sobbing. When the boys were asleep she would curse to herself, and to random man who had taken advantage of her that night.
One night as I was sitting across from her on the floor, I watched her clasp my hand in hers, and look up at the sky. I think she was praying. Who to? I didn’t know. But I just sat there and watched, as she begged. She begged for the baby to not be born, she begged for everything to go away, and the most heartbreaking of all, she begged that time would turn back, that she would’ve never seen that night, or any night. She prayed she was never born. She prayed she’d die.
She got her wish. She passed away giving birth, the baby nor her survived. And I was left, with two young boys, and an old apartment. During the day I would leave them alone to do my jobs. Things were working okay. Or at least as okay as they could be going given our circumstances.
One evening I returned home to find the one boy curled up and reading to my brother, who had a bag full of ice on his head as he laid on the floor. The boy got up and told me my brother had come down with a fever and was resting.
The sickness lasted for quite a while. Every night for a few weeks I’d come home to my brother uneasy, next to the other boy caring for him. One night I sat next to my brother, he was weak and spoke in a fragile broken voice. He told me he was in love with the boy. The one who read to him, took care of him, and was always by his side. He told me he had loved the boy more than anyone else in life before.
No more than a week later he had passed. The boy and I stood together in the tiny clinic, as we were given the news. The boy ran out, and within a few days wasn’t around anymore. He ran away from home one night when I was out working.
I waited, for months. Hoping he’d return. He never did. I moved out of the apartment, and departed to find something better. Maybe where I’m headed will be better. Maybe it’s more promising. I’ll find out soon enough, my bags lay beside me, as I’m packed into this tiny ship. I will be there. Soon.
