piccoletta

shouts downstairs.

i switch off the ceiling fan in the 40 degree heat to hear the conversation, but not before increasing the volume of the television in the next room. my brother stares at the army of psycho-robots on the screen, expressionless.

i stay in my room, on my laptop. the dull glow of the monitor hurts my eyes, but it is a soothing pain - one that assures me that i am still human. i can hear the voices but not make out the words. i catch my reflection in the mirror; too still, too straight, too white. i try to reprimand myself for being so desperate to eavesdrop - i cannot. i am not ashamed of doing it. somewhere deep down, i still believe i can fix this.

someone bounds up the stairs; a door slams. it's an old movie, one i have seen so many times that i know the words without looking at the subtitles - words in a language so foreign yet so familiar.

i feel the usual nausea rising up my throat so i go to the bathroom and wait for the wave to pass. i do what cloying psychologists in shady websites advise - think of stuff that makes me happy. the most original solution, i wonder dimly. the thought almost makes me smile.

i go downstairs. everyone has retired to their rooms, preparing for one long week of cold silence, whispers, and dramatic phone calls.

kitchen lights, leftover pizza in the oven.

Blood- red lips, and chamomile tea, 

Ebony nails, and heels sharper than her tongue, 

Rivulets of youth trickling down her chin,

Graying hair entwined with jacarandas and thorns,

A Machiavellian smile curved with blood, scandals and dreams,  

That’s what she wears as she kisses death hello.  

“Abominable!” they cursed, through clouds of puffs,

For her eyes twinkled with sonnets and secrets,

And she talked of dead poets and forbidden literature,

And clock tower pigeons and ink smeared fingers,

And smelled of parchment and quills, 

And the November mist that smelled of despair,

Bathed in the glow of her chamomile tea. 

“Whimsical!” they chided, tightening their corsets,

While she walked barefoot on the streets, 

Winking at the gents with their smirks and pipes,

And the ladies with their powdered noses,  

And she snuck into museums at night, 

And went on adventures on the backseats of strangers,

And pored over globes and maps,

And celebrated her seventh walk down the aisle,

All the while, sipping her rather cold tea. 

For now she knew, as her scarlet nails dug into Death’s cold flesh,

That the willow that wept, wept in envy, envy of the wildflower at its feet

And the corsets and pipes that would clink their glasses tonight,

And delight in her corpse as it rotted among the flowers,

Never would their lips thrill with the ambrosia that her own were soaked in,

Never would they learn the coveted knowledge, hidden where the eye cannot see- 

For just beyond the barbed wire of logic and clockwork, of right and wrong,

The world is just a field – whimsical and magical and silly.

And thus, she ran towards  the sun, swollen and yellow,

And erupted in showers of gold and dust and laughter,

And her chamomile tea grew cold.

And yet, as they scrubbed and rinsed until their fingers bruised,

When father came back from the seas, reeking of cheap liquor, rotten fish, and the more putrid odour of wretched disappointment, our little universe widened happily in the hopes of welcoming another star. Alas, it wasn’t until too late that we realized the unfamiliar darkness that crept in wasn’t about to go away with the sun. Lost in the tales of glittering gold and enigmatic sirens, he created his own planet inside his study – a world patched together by compasses and soiled maps.

When I think of you, when I think of that summer, I want to remember your smile, your crooked front teeth, your tie-dye t-shirts and Minnie-mouse pajamas, your burnt brownies and popsicle-stained lips. I want to remember you swaying your hips to the radio, tap-dancing under the kitchen lights beside the empty fridge. I want to remember our lopsided sand castles and the sea salt on our lips. And yet, all I remember are your eyes, ruby-red and unblinking, as you poured father’s tea that summer day. Instead of seeing the familiar geometry of constellations in your eyes, I saw the fathomless depth of the Black Hole.

“Too sweet,” he spat, as his left hand, swift as a serpent, lashed out on your cheek. He threw the tea cup across the room; it exploded in a thousand tiny fragments of porcelain and Asiatic lilies. I watched, transfixed, as the clock on the mantelpiece above his head ticked one, two, three…

He gasped for breath as if his lungs were being squeezed by an iron first. He flailed his hands around wildly, like a drunken pelican, sweeping the maps and globes off the table. Earths in various shapes rolled across the floor.

The squawk of the yellow bird which jumped out from the clock drowned his last cry. And all the while, you stood beside him, silent and stoic as a knight. And then you plunged into the depths of that Black Hole. All I remember was seeing a trickle of that “too sweet” tea down your throat.

As my hand slipped from yours, I couldn’t swim anymore. I was drowning, Mother – drowning in the same galaxy where I learnt to waddle as a child. The same stars – or were they really just bright needles? – dug into my skin, leaving behind rivulets of blood – disgusting, mortal fluid – across my limbs.

 I still wake up in cold sweat, my mouth bitter with the taste of sweetened tea and metallic blood.

 Take this wayward seafarer, Mother, and show her the way. Let the North Star appear in her night sky. In Fate’s sickening, sadistic twist, I find myself out in the seas – the very same seas where dad used to traverse for buried treasures and legendary discoveries. The sea is bottomless, a dark, cold pool of nothingness, rising above the deck to wash over me like a nightmare. And yet, I see the reflections of your stars in its murky waters. And I know that it’s not father who is watching over me tonight.

 Put me to sleep, mother – for I have been sailing for too long. Sing me a lullaby, tell me a story. For once, let my dreams be golden and rich with the tales of glorious battles, brave knights and sleeping princesses, dragons and castles.

Let the heavens open up, Mother. Let the shooting stars rain. Let the sky rip apart with the cacophony in my head. Let the sea rise and the ships sink and the final notes of the orchestra drown my scream.