Frozen Mind

The classroom was cold, but my teacher kept on talking. I wrapped the faded cardigan around me and pressed my chin against my chest. Her voice drifted into thin air and I turned my attention towards the girl on my right. She was fidgeting with a piece of paper under her desk. She rolled and unrolled it, and her little game kept my attention.

I heard the sharp “rap!” on my desk. I jumped, the class laughed. She looked down on me above her glasses. Her stern eyes and the deep scowl penetrated through me until she looked blurry and rather silly. I sat up and loosened the cardigan, trying my best to look sorry, but she sent me to the office anyway. I knew the principal would sigh and drop any document he was reading to frown and chastise me.

I am not a trouble maker; I just have a hard time paying attention. My teacher’s voice reminds me of fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Her clothes are too bright and her eyes look like small beads in the thick framed glasses. The class would laugh when she got up, because her flowy bohemian vibe shirt would be stuck between her buttocks.

She knew, she must have felt it, but I believe it has been years that she has been hearing the mocking chuckles and the daring screams that escaped the lips of rowdy boys, whose parents did not care if they stayed out until past midnight.

“They don’t go to learn” My mother always said, and I would nod my head in solemn agreement, while she poured the delicious, creamy soup in my bowl and kiss my sweaty forehead.

I passed the principal’s office this time and headed straight to the girls' restroom. I pulled the alcohol from my bag, the dark liquid swished, threatening to spill its content and expose me. I pressed it against my cold lips and chugged almost the whole bottle. I was no longer cold; the liquid swam through me and blanketed my freezing insides. The warmth wrapped my outsides and helped to feel better. I pulled my hair up in a ponytail and stared at the slight upturn of my lips, the deep scar on my forehead. A tell tale of my summer last year.

Everyone must have heard about the crime, but the voice was too loud, the scream was too piercing and the crying was too much. I felt when his fingers dug into my skin, the desperate way his hand clung to my wrist. I felt the shovel escape my fingers and the impact rushed through me like the wind in a storm. I heard the ruptured breathing and her high pitched voice run through the dark and settled in my brain. I couldn't stand him hitting her any longer.

She is fine now, but I am still suffering. I could barely speak or even look at her. I sweat every time she comes near or whenever she touches me. She tells me thank you, but I am still afraid what I might do to myself if she reminds me of my past any longer.

By this time, I was drowsy.

I slid to the floor and pressed my head against the cool wall tiles. My palms were sweating and my heart racing. The door opened, the creak filled my ear and I wanted to retch. The face was blurry, the glass bottle slid from my hand and unto to the floor. The contents spilled, the brown liquid raced along the floor and settled under the sinks.

The hand touched me. The fingers pressed against my temple to support my head that I could feel dropping to the side. The pink blouse she wore was so loud and it made me ill. I forcefully pushed the hand away and struggled to stand, but the hand pushed me down. I heard the voice, but it sounded afar off and I could feel my strength slowly leaving. I knew she would call somebody and they would send me to the perky guidance counselor. She did exactly that.

I couldn’t run away to the old bridge and inhale the river air, because I had no strength. They would call my mother. Her hands would shake as she held on to the straps of her brown bag and she would turn her head away as if to avoid seeing what a mess I was. I heard the piercing creak again. The figure was blurry but the blue overalls were bright and I knew it was the janitor.

The heavy hands picked me up and my body slumped over his hands. I could hear the labored breathing. I could see the faces, blurry and joined together at the doors as he walked with me through the hallway. Some  laughed while others looked afraid and pitiful. I felt the soft cushion of the sofa underneath my body and sighed, I was in the guidance Counsellor's office.My hair and clothes were sticking to my skin. I heard voices and I saw faces, but I didn’t see the brown handbag or the platform shoes.

When I woke up, I saw the usual perky face. The plaid shirt rolled up at his elbows. His face was handsome, but much too alive for my liking. His gaze penetrated and I was sure I was a mess. I was in different clothes, so I knew I pissed myself. The brown handbag was on the chair opposite to me. The straps were pinched and I managed a smile.

“What happened” His voice was beautiful like a lullaby.

I could see the sirens and the neighbours in the pajamas. I could feel the heavy hands on my shoulders and hear the screaming.

“I killed my father”

I could see the blood pouring from his face, his mouth open and was stopped midway a scream.

“Why” he didn’t look surprised, he has been briefed

“He was hitting my mom” I pressed the insides of the palms against my forehead; the sweat was threatening to rush down my face again. I could see the shovel leaned up against the house, Smeared in deep red. I could feel his grip even now. The regret washed over me like a cold shower, freezing my mind. I still hear her scream, the way she looks at me now.

I remember the bright lights and the predictive questions; the black uniforms and guns hanging at the waist. My white shirt was decorated with red handprints, dirt and sweat. My head throbbed; when I touched it I could feel the deep wound.

I said what everybody already knew. I reminded myself of the dreadful summer, allowing the memories to control my mind and disturb me. I said what they knew, but this time I said it to myself.

I killed my father.