I have a story to share. While this could be a scenario that many of you may have found yourselves in at times, I have a disclaimer: in this story of mine, I am the villain.
This incident has scarred me for life and I’m not sure if I’ll ever forget about it: writing is just one way to relieve myself of the pain.
I’m in the 12th grade, right now, my phone is my best friend and my family, my enemy. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents- but only until they begin their lectures on how I’m wasting my life and not studying enough. For them, my phone is the only cause. Watching videos on YouTube, reading on Wattpad and of course the countless social media sites that I have access to: all of them are distractions, influencers and addictions.
A few days ago, I was studying in my room. Albeit, my books were open but it wouldn’t take a genius to realize from a glance, that I wasn’t paying attention. My door was open; mom came to check up on me (as was her habit from time to time).
“With your mobile again?” The disappointment in her voice evident.
“Yup!” I replied, “But I won’t hand it over to you.”
My lips curved into a smirk. I got up and walked across to my parents’ room, it gave me a great sense of satisfaction to show her that I wasn’t on my phone, because my phone was charging in her room.
“Well, your book wasn’t open anyway!” Saying that, she walked into her room and shut the door.
I felt a little hopeless- this time, I was right: well, at least I wasn’t on my phone! Also, my book was open on the table. I had to show her this. A wave of anger overtook me.
She had to see that the book was open on my table and that I wasn’t on the phone. She had to understand me. See that I wasn’t worthless. All these misconceptions about me and my phone had to change. I don’t know how this happened, but I lost all control of myself and began banging her door, screaming,
“Don’t walk away in the middle of this!” My voice, it sounded foreign even to me. It scared me. My desperation to prove myself reached a new level.
I tried to calm myself down, but this just frustrated me even more. “F***!” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop it. I stopped breathing. I was sure that my mom had heard me. I turned away quickly and thought I should head back to my room, before I caused any more damage.
It was too late. Mom had heard me. And as soon as I closed my door, she came out of hers and threw mine open. At a first glance, I knew that my mom was broken, and I was the one to do it. But nothing stopped here. All hell broke loose.
She started screaming, explaining how it was a mere comment made in the passing and not one that was meant to offend. The words coming out of her mouth scared me, her actions, even more. She began hitting her head with her hands, she was sobbing.
I know she wanted to hit me, that it was the only way she could vent, and yet she didn’t. I ran to her, her lip was bleeding and I wanted to clean her up. Stop the tears. I wanted to give her a glass of water, put her to bed and pat her head as she fell asleep.
I wanted to show her how much I love and respect her. How all of this was just a teenage girl’s careless anger. I wanted to hug her as she screamed at me, but how could I? I was so ashamed. I realized that in her anger, she threw her wedding necklace on the floor. I picked it up and tried to place it around her neck. It was only after a few attempts, she let me touch her.
I hugged her. Held her tight and close to me. Our breathing slowing down a bit, my dear mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dried blood on her lips. Slowly she whispered, “What did I ever do to see such a day?”
I wanted to tell her something. I had to give her an answer. But how? What? The worst pain is seeing my mother crumble like this, in front of me and because of me. She got up and walked to the door, “The only reason I went into my room and closed the door after speaking to you was because I got the bottom of my pants wet and wanted to change it.”
She shut my door quietly and I was left in silence.
All this while I was trying to prove something to her, but in the end left her in the position to prove something to me. That’s how all of this began.
I wanted to follow her, say something to repair or heal the wounds I had caused. But I have no words in my vocabulary to do this. No apology. No explanation. Nothing.