Geplaatst Nu dacht ik, als ik het op Bokt zet, zal het me vast wel motiveren om te schrijven aangezien ik het al weken niet heb aangeraakt. Dit verhaal is in het Engels geschreven.
Tot nu toe heb ik alleen nog maar positieve reactie's gehad, maar ik wil ook wel eens de mening weten van mensen die mij niet kennen, niet bekend zijn met mijn schrijfstijl en die ook nog eens tips en kritiek hebben. Ook heb ik er voor de zekerheid een [!] bij gezet.
Hot flashes of anger, losing control for a mere second and opening your eyes to a total disaster. I’ve dealt with disasters of my own doing before, but never like this. Usually my disasters involve boys and the way I trip over my words and end up mumbling, looking like a complete fool. This time, the disaster involved light bulbs suddenly exploding, fire spreading, losing the family I had, the sound of people crying at a funeral and finally, the blaming stares. All that was gained was a future I had not foreseen.
It will be okay. I will be okay. These words are repeated constantly in my mind as a banketstaaf I silently whisper to myself, my chapped lips moving without any sound passing them. My back is sore from the stone wall I have been leaning against for hours, every muscle aches with the slightest movements. Darkness came as soon as I was hastily pushed in this cell by a stranger, whose touch lingers on my upper arms, resulting in me feeling not only captured, but violated as well. I don’t remember a single thing from the last 24 hours, much less my current surroundings. There is not enough light for me to even figure out whether this is a cave, a cell, or just a simple room. Throbbing coming from inside my head draws me out of my trance and I wrap my fingers around my head, surprised to find my fingers feel sensitive against the soft skin of my face. The scent of burnt flesh buries itself deep inside my nose and I pull back from my own fingers, eyes wide open even though I can only make out the black silhouette of slender fingers against the background of the stone wall. The only source of light comes from a tiny window near the ceiling, spreading very little illumination and I’m as close to it as possible, hiding in the corner. With my heart pounding in my chest, I slowly bring my hands closer to my face. Caught in darkness, I must rely on my other senses. The scent of burnt flesh increases and I draw back again, my stomach in knots. Realization hits.
I have done it again.
Disgusted at my own body betraying me, I try to make myself as small as possible against the rough bricks of the wall. Not that it would work, you cannot hide from yourself. It is hard to fight a monster if it is a part of you. Tears flow from my cheeks, the salt biting in cuts on my cheeks I wasn’t even aware of. Memories flash before my eyes and I mutter ‘no’, over and over again, but my own brain won’t cooperate. Sometimes I think I subconsciously like the guilt and the pain that comes with the memories. Or maybe the monster likes the feeling of pain, the heart wrenching ache I can never seem to get rid of.
‘Could you get the plates?’ my father asks, and I nod before getting up from the leather sofa and playfully pulling my younger sister’s blonde ponytail. She pouts before a toothy grin appears and soon she focuses on the TV screen again, and I snicker as I make my way towards the kitchen. I can tell my father is frustrated and I can tell he is going to take it out on me, even if I am not the origin of his irritation. A worry line between his eyebrows and eyes, a muddy brown instead of his usual kind shade of hazel, lips a thin line as he eyes me.
‘Your mother is late for dinner. Again,’ he mutters, shoving a pile of plates in my hands. Three. Without answering I turn around again and walk back to the dining table, where Abigail is already sitting. Only eight, I remember with fondness. Eight and talks like an adult, using words she does not quite grasp the meaning of. Setting the table, a loud bark distracts me and I almost trip over our dog.
‘Move it,’ I sigh and gently scoot her away with my foot before sitting down.
From where I’m sitting, across from Abigail, I can just see the television screen flashing. Toys are scattered on the floor, the iPad on the coffee table next to an empty mug, where my father was just reading the newspaper in his chair. He ignored the unopened envelopes addressed to ‘Leah Kahn’, though my fingers itch to at least find out what they are about. The taupe coloured walls are bare, where there used to be a wall filled with photos and memories in our old house. Suddenly, I feel aggravated. Usually, I felt longing as I stared at the bare walls. Now, however, I can feel annoyance slip into me. Could my parents not bother pretending to be happy, even if it was for Abigail’s sake? Even while thinking, I realize it is not for Abigail’s sake, but for mine. I grew up with parents who were happy, who loved each other with all they had. Abigail was not as lucky, growing up with the sound of slamming doors as a banketstaaf, but it seemed to have given her a level of understanding someone her age should not have. For her, it would not come as a shock. She is used to it, she knows no different. I do. I remember the days my father came home from work early, when my mother was visiting her sister and the babysitter was taking care of me, when he would surprise her with a lovely dinner to come home to. Soon, my mother visited her sister daily and the lovely dinners grew cold, as did my father’s mood. It took me a while to understand, but my father had known for a while and was only trying to mend their relationship.
It was going on for months when I realized how unlikely it would be for my mother to visit her sister, three hours away. I was twelve, Abigail was three.
Pretending became my family’s best quality. Only Abigail and I seemed to be aware of what was happening. I was fine with pretending for a while, silence was better than the noise of my father yelling and my mother crying, the slamming of doors as I buried my face into my pillow until I fell asleep. The memories come and go, flashing before my eyes until my father knocks over a glass and it shatters on the ground. He swears, and I flinch and quickly look up to see Abigail eating as if nothing happened. Pretenders we were, pretenders we will always be, I thought. I could see the façade. The emotionless expression on her face as she ate, eyes on her plate. With a lot of noise, he gets up and angrily pushes the dog away, more aggressively than he normally would have done, stalking to the kitchen. I can’t help but follow him.
‘It’s okay, dad. She’ll be here.’ I try to reassure him, reach out for his shoulder but the moment I touch him, he flinches and angrily jerks his shoulder away, out of my reach.
Rejection. Anger. Things I am not used to being the subject of. I was aware my father would be upset, but I did not expect him to respond the way he did. My hand hovers in the air for a few seconds until I pull away as if it was burned.
‘No,’ he whispers angrily, ‘she will not. That whore of a mother of yours is not coming back. Not this time.’
I expect him to show remorse for the word he just used, but to my surprise, only anger remains in his eyes while my heartbeat picks up speed and my palms begin to sweat. The sight of a man breaking in front of you, it stays with you. My father, always strong and composed, is breaking down as he slams the cupboards and the glasses rattle.
‘You Kahn women, all the same.’ He spits at me and for the first time in my life, I back away. For once, I am afraid of the man who raised me.
‘Dad,’ I try, but he pushes me against the wall in an angry attempt to shut me up, fingers curling into the skin on my collarbone, near the jugular. Stone hits my back. All goes dark for a second.
“Get the hell up,” a voice says loudly from across the cell. It is day, I can tell from the increase of light through the small window and the door has been opened, light is streaming in. Immediately another voice follows, in a much more calm tone.
“You don’t have to shout, she is just a girl.” The voice is warm and deep and I am this person eternally grateful. I can’t help but feel threatened as footsteps move into my direction. My eyes have yet to recover from the sudden, bright lights and all I see are two silhouettes.
The wall and I have become close friends in these hours but even the wall against my back cannot protect me from what is coming from right in front of me. Fingers curl into my hair, near my scalp and pull my head back.
“You need to shut the hell up, Michael, that’s what you need to do. You don’t know anything. She might burn the whole damned place down.” He hisses angrily, tightening his grip on my hair. I yelp, which only seems to amuse him.
“I doubt she could do that much damage with your fist in her hair.” Michael answers and as I blink repeatedly, he comes into focus. I can only catch a glimpse of dark skin and eyes before my attacker grasps my chin and yanks it towards him so I am only inches away from his face.
“It’s not the hair we need to look out for,” he mutters and his eyes slide down to my hands for a second, which I curl in to fists as my injured fingers tremble. Then, his dark blue eyes stare into mine and with ragged breaths I stare back at him. He would have been handsome, if he hadn’t been eying me like I had just slaughtered his entire family. His blonde hair is freshly washed; the scent of shampoo lingers, and is an unruly mess. Just like the rest of him. Wrinkled clothes and dark eyes with bags underneath.
“What’s your name?” he asks, loosening the grip he has on me when he realizes I am not trying to run. With my heart pounding in my chest, I take a few seconds. If he wants to hurt me, he would have done so already, right? Maybe he is interrogating me. Have I witnessed anything in the last 24 hours? My mind is a jumble of blurred images and voices I cannot place. The feeling of his body so close to mine is making me uncomfortable, and I wish I could back away from him, but I can’t.
“Give her some space, man.” Michael utters and finally, he listens. He is still holding on to me, his fingers now pressing into the sensitive skin on my shoulder. The lack of water has taken its toll on my throat and I cough out my name,
“Charlotte Price,”
Dat woord viel er ineens buiten, viel enorm op tussen de rest en verwarde mij daardoor onnodig.
Maar goed, ik weet natuurlijk niet hoe het verder zit met je ambities of iig de ambities wat betreft dit verhaal. 