Blood Ties (Memoir)

    Shivering against the cool autumn air, I clenched the edges of my jacket into my fists as I held it closer to my body, trying to ignore the silent but audible curses my mother muttered under her breath. Her long, chestnut waves of hair lingered on her face before she quickly brushed them back, using the light of her cellphone to examine the silver keys before trying to unlock the door to our ‘home.’ I looked up at the midnight sky: watching the stars that littered across it, twinkling in their far off destinations like fire flies. I felt my younger sister cling to my ten year old body, and as I peered down at her through widened eyes, I was met by a blue-green gaze that burned with fear and silent sadness.

    “I think Mama’s keys are broken,” she whispered in her high voice, quiet enough for me to hear, snuggling her seven year old body closer to mine. “She keeps trying to open the door but it won’t open.”

    My younger sister was the spitting image of my mother: she had the same hair color and waves that cascaded around her face like water falls. She had the same face: lips and eye shape. Even the same saddened pout. The only difference was their eye color: my mother’s were green. If you compared a photo of my sister and a photo of my mother as a child, you would think they were the same person.

    “Everything will be fine, Meli,” I muttered, eyes quickly flitting over to my mother, who was still trying to unlock the doors to our ‘home.’   

    “If we can’t get in, we can just go to Mama’s new apartment anyway. We bought sheets earlier, and Dad doesn’t know a thing. We’ll be leaving him soon anyway,” I quietly murmured, trying to break my gaze away from her puppy dog eyes that knew how to wrench at my heart in the right way. Holding her closer, I closed my eyes as tight as I could, eyes burning from the tears that tried so desperately to fall. I swallowed as quietly as I could, trying to ease the constriction that built up in my throat as I looked at the door, knowing that we couldn’t go inside. The lock was a different color.



***



    Flipping through the pages of the book I was reading, locked in the comfortable haven I called my bedroom, I ignored all of the knocks and worried calls that my mother made. Grinding my teeth against one another, I gripped the soft edges of the paperback in my hands, reading the same line over and over again as my vision blurred, feeling a warm essence roll down the sides of my face. When I noticed the polka dots littering the page, I realized that they were tears. I paid them no attention though: There was no need to.

    After a while my mother finally gave up; the knocks on the door finally ceasing as I heard a sigh and the pitter patter of feet, soon fading into silence once again. Grabbing a cup of water that I kept placed on the side of my desk to quench my summer thirst, I quickly gulped it down and looked around my own personal prison, laying on my Queen sized bed that was littered in crimson and ebony sheets. The walls were an ugly cream color, since the new apartment I moved into about a year prior hadn’t allowed us to paint our walls. I lived in a different set of apartments than when I first left my father with my mother and sister almost three years prior: I was now twelve, turning thirteen in a couple of months, since it was still June and I had yet to make it to Eighth Grade. My mother had found herself a new boyfriend that we were now living with. I didn’t mind though: there was no point in caring about anything.

    I looked around and eyed the cheap posters I had hung up in my room, slightly grateful to have some form of self expression in the new ‘home’ I lived in. I was no longer forced to share a miniscule bedroom with my prissy, narcissistic younger sister, since I now had a room to call my own. It was the largest in the apartment: my mom and her boyfriend would have had it if it had a master bathroom. There was a small bookshelf which was filled to its capacity against the edge of the wall, across from a desk which was covered with the books that couldn’t fit on the bookshelf itself. Across from my bed was a cherry-wood nightstand, with my small TV sitting on top of it.

    Biting my lip, I tried my hardest to ignore the burning sensation that spread across the upper most part of my arm with electrical bursts every time I moved it. I felt trapped as the guilt and sadness overcame me; as if there was a weight in the deepest part of my stomach confining me in this room, keeping me on the crimson and ebony bedsheets. Wiping my eyes with my hand, I bit my lip even harder, not surprised to taste iron as it fled into my mouth. Putting the glass of water back down onto the desk, picking up the book again, I started reading the novel once more. It was my only form of escape from this wretched life I was living. It allowed myself to run away from the harsh realities and immerse myself in a parallel universe. It was a distraction, and a pretty good one at that.



“I can’t believe he did it again.”



***



    Crouching down, getting myself as close as I could to the insipid wall, I pressed my ear against the door as hard as I could, trying my hardest to hear anything which would indicate where my father had gone. I wasn’t using a cup, since I realized the movies had lied: it didn’t help to hear in real life. It was about three weeks since I stopped visiting him on the weekends. It was about three weeks ago when my mother and I noticed that the door to the house was left slightly ajar. It was about three weeks ago when I heard my mother cry about the hardest in her life. It was about three weeks ago when I started noticing the late night phone calls.



Three weeks ago.



    Trying my hardest not to trip, I pressed my eleven year old hands to the wall, trying to steady myself as a cream colored ball of fur zoomed by the side of my body, yipping loudly as it ran into what I assumed to be the kitchen. He was soon forgotten about, but a few words made my body freeze the innermost part of my soul, leaving my feet frozen to the carpeted ground.

    “What are his chances of being found innocent? He couldn’t have done such a horrible thing!”

    Turning my head slowly as I attempted to step backwards, I soon found myself sprinting into my room, not caring about the slam the door made as I closed it behind me. I didn’t care that I heard something drop and clatter to the floor. I didn’t care that my younger sister woke up and look at me with slightly opened, sleepy eyes.



I didn’t care.



***



    “Emela, Melissa, we need to talk,” My mother stated, the edges of her eyes crinkling slightly in what I assumed to be worry.

    I stared at the skeleton of the person who I believe was once my mother. Her eyes were no longer the bright and lively green I remember: they were dark and moss like, the edges surrounding them were black and sunken in. Her skin was a little paler, and as was her chestnut hair. It had some strands of grey that ran through them, and the whole mop was kept up in a messy bun. Her clothing was loose, and her cheekbones were prominent. I haven’t seen her smile in a long time.

    “I think it’d be a good idea if you two saw a therapist, or a counselor of some kind.”

    The words struck me like a hammer against an anvil: shooting a widespread panic from the edges of my fingertips, like electricity, that then coursed throughout my entire body. My heart started beating frantically, and my chest started heaving as I feared the organ would explode and rip apart the insides of my chest, leaving a bloody mess that would splatter against the ugly cream walls and linoleum floor tiles. Clenching my fists tightly, I struck them against the surface of the cherry wood coffee table as I stared at her with wide eyes, not noticing that I was shaking ever so slightly.

    “I think it would be a good idea,” I heard my sister murmur, staring at her thumbs as she played thumb-war with herself, refusing to look up at anyone who happened to be in the same room as her.

    “No! I refuse! I’m not crazy! Only crazy people see therapists! I’m not crazy!” I cried out, eyes instantly filling with tears as I slammed my fists on the table once again.

Almost as if by fate, I looked over and locked eyes with my sister, who was surprisingly also trying to hold back tears as well. Her blue-green eyes were a dull gray, contrasting greatly with her bright, neon colored clothing and skinny, tight white jeans. Her hair was styled with about fifteen different hair products, and her eyes were outlined with a slight amount of eyeliner and just enough eyeshadow to hide her under-eye bags, giving off a natural expression. Her mouth was slightly open, as if she was going to say something, but stopped herself as I looked at her with a pleading expression.

    “I can’t go! There’s no need to! I don’t need anyone’s help: I’ll be fine! The only person I need is myself!”

    “Emela!” My mother hissed, eyebrows slightly furrowed together as she bit her bottom lip. “I’m not going to force you to go, but just know that a therapist can help you with your feelings. He can help you deal with your father being-”

    “Stop!” I cried out, jumping out and punching the wall beside me, casting my eyes toward the ground in order to avoid making any sort of eye contact with the people around me. “You don’t have to say the words! Please! Just don’t! I’m fine! He’ll be released soon enough! He’s innocent!”

    Looking into my sister’s now dull gray eyes once again, I knew we were thinking the same thing: There was no way in Hell that we’d go and see a therapist. We both knew that one wouldn’t help us feel any better, or help us deal with our messed up jungle of emotions. The only thing that would help us would be seeing our father again, and knowing for sure that he wasn’t the monster that all the evidence was pointing him out to be, but we knew that wouldn’t happen for a long time. Or, were we simply in denial, not wanting to believe that he could be this kind of monster. Maybe we didn’t want to believe that our father was a child molester: we didn’t want to believe that our father was a monster. What child would? Besides, didn’t monsters only exist in fairy tales?