Who I Met in The Washroom
When I sat back in bed on 26th April, I thought how my life had changed. A normal teenager would think about school (but not about studies),parents (but not about anything good unless that phone was theirs) and problems in general ( boys, drama and more drama). I was thinking about powers, punishments and death. So enlightening.
After the swimming pool incident, I ran out the pool and went to the washroom. But I didn’t wash my face with water. I went in a cubicle and twirled the strand of blue in my jet black hair. I couldn’t believe that those blue eyes that looked so like mine were staring straight at me from the depths of my memories.
I didn’t try to tell anyone anything. People had stopped believing me long back when stories of me surviving the bathtub incident had spread throughout my town. Teresa Mitchell, the seahorse. No. Actually the called me ruder names, but most of them were associated with lying, so I wouldn’t even bother recalling them.
The orphanage told the authorities (who had been informed due to some idiot thinking I ran away to Ohio during those two hours) that I was in a cupboard playing hide and seek with my friends in the orphanage on the occasion of my birthday.
No one questioned the bruises on my neck as the domestic help had hidden them in a turtleneck sweater. No one questioned why I was wearing a sweater in April. No one questioned why I was pretend crying in such a horrendous manner. All questions, all explanations to themselves.
I was one of the last to be taken away by my foster parents from the orphanage due to everyone worried about Satan haunting them. Someone had leaked the story about me and the bathtub. No one asked why the cupboard story was made up. No one gave me a chance to justify myself. At 6, I decided to be so anti-social that compared to talking to me, people would consider talking to a mute person more worthy of their attention.
10 years later, I laugh at my smartness. I got adopted by Gregory and Angela Mitchell, who named me Teresa. I never asked for my original name. They never told me. On a lighter note, I was never called Teresa anyways. Terry, sweetheart and darling were all I was made to deal with.
I used to think that maybe even God decided that that was enough torture for a child. Scarred faces and breathing in water was enough for me and Him.
For me, I had just discovered that I was wrong.
When I came out of the washroom, a lady was waiting for me. She said nothing. I opened my mouth to speak but shut it. She was wearing a gown (blue), a ring (sapphire) and a necklace (more sapphires) that made me wonder that the smell of poop was even more disgusting next to her beauty.
“Teresa, dear” she whispered. I was going to answer the usual “How do you know my name?” but I stopped myself. She was not here, nor there. I didn’t know that a there existed. She wasn’t real but she wasn’t fake. I didn’t know what was my definition real and did it even matter, when I could breathe underwater? I gulped a breath and whispered, “Your face is actually prettier than it appears underwater.”