“Mommy, what are you making?” I asked. My mother was standing in the kitchen, her brown hair in disarray with flecks of powder in them. She was wearing an apron that said number one mom on the front of it. I tried to crane my neck to see what she was doing to the stop of the counter. After awhile she finally looked at me and gave me a very sweet and loving smile. “I am making something very wonderful Hayden.” She said to me.
I smiled back at her. “Can I see?” I asked her innocently.
She laughed a beautiful laugh but eventually she placed what ever she had in her hands, and picked me up gently and settled me up on the counter top. On top of the counter besides me was a very messy looking cake decked with different colors of frosting and sprinkles on top of it.
“How do you know what you are doing?” I asked her as I witnessed her placing more and more sprinkles on top of it.
“That's my secret, Hayden. I don't.” She said simply.
I opened my eyes, I was laying in my dingy room once more. All of the happiness that was inside of me was all snuffed out like a candle the moment I was away with that memory. I was seven when she said that to me. My mother was the most artistic person that I have ever known and that's how she always taught me about new things that I didn't understand. I loved how she used art like that instead of the way that teachers do it. Especially to those who depend on visual learning the most. With a heavy sigh, I got up from my bed only to walk up and get my sketchbook from the dresser and sat back down once more. I searched for a blank new page and began to draw. I drew a oval like circle first that gradually became a very familiar face. Next, I drew an arch of a delicate female neck that was bending down slightly to an angle. I continued to work at the drawing and before I knew it, I heard heavy footsteps enter the house once more. When I came back from the meeting, my father wasn't home and I thought nothing much about it. For the past couple of years, he would just up and leave without telling me where he was going or how long he would be out. I would always assume it was at the nearby bar and every time, my assumptions were right. Of course I never said anything like this to his face. Not when I would just get a slap in the face or worst. So instead I learned to keep my big mouth to myself as I witness him destroy himself in the fit of drunken rage.
Sometimes, I felt bad for him. Sometimes. But most of the time, I felt guilty for what I have done. Because I was the one that caused him to be like this in the first place. So I couldn't let him take all of the blame, that would be just self fish of me to do so. If I hadn't convinced her to drive that day, maybe things would have been a lot more different. And that's what it all comes down to in the end, the what if scenarios. What if we didn't take that drive? What if we did but I didn't survive and she did?
A lot of times I
wished the second what if question was true. But that would also
sprout more and more what ifs. Life, I concluded, is filled with
complicated situations that are met with simple answers. Banging and
a bit of shouting emerged from some where in the house, the shouting
didn't sound like my dad so I assumed that it was one of his friends
that he brought over from time to time. The last time my father
brought them over, I was forced to drink alcohol for the first time.
I remembered that my father was seething in suppressed anger as I
quietly denied the huge glass of alcohol that one of his friends
tried to coax me into drinking it.
“Go on, sunny.” he said to me. “You should try it, it doesn't taste all that bad.”
“No, thank you...” I whispered to him, pushing the drink away from me.
“Just drink the damn cup, Hayden.” My father had said, by this time I knew the small cues of my fathers new found anger to know that he was indeed angry at me for denying the cup to his friend. With great hesitation, I eventually grabbed the cup and drank it. By that, I meant, I drank the whole thing which wasn't easy because I seriously wanted to throw up the moment it touched my tongue but I had to make my father proud and not disrespect his friends. After I drank the whole thing, my fathers friend laughed at my facial expression I gave.
“It takes some time to getting use to sunny.” He said, he then turned to my father and said to him “Your son is something alright! I wish I had a son like this but all I seem to be capable of producing a lot of girls!”
It was after this that I remembered of going to the bathroom and puking my guts out. The alcohol burned my throat, making me believe that I set myself on fire from the inside out. Once I was sure that my stomach fluids were cleared out, I washed and rinsed out my mouth with toothpaste and spat it back out before going to my room and weep. Even though I loved my father to death, I vowed that I would never end up being like him.
And I broke it.