There was a reason Jaroslav called Mama and Tata your family, a reason he refers to them by the Czech names for Grandma and Grandpa. They are warm like that, protective. You can see Tata kneeling to teach a young boy how to ride a bike. Mama is an awesome cook. I know because she’s left me a plate of dinner and dessert and puking or not, I’ve managed to chow it all down.
Yet in all the warmth there is a chilly streak. That streak is me.
When Mama and Tata hugged me goodnight, I fought the urge to push them backward. Each time they smiled at me, indulgent and protective, I wanted to cry out: You don’t know me! Why do you care? Let me alone!
More than anything, I want to punish myself, put my head through the bathroom mirror, cut my wrists with the dull butter knife until the blood reluctantly comes. You want someone to treat you like shit? Here you go.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment