I am bad.
I can see it on her face. She is red, she is rage. She screams and screams and screams. Her face is like a Japanese mask, a giant scowl and lines where her face has creased around the down-turned mouth, the flaring nostrils, the forehead. I try not to look at the mask. I cannot bear to see the disgust in the grimace, the wrinkled nose. Her eyes are filled with an unquenchable fire that burns, burns, burns anger. When she looks at me, I shrink. I am certain she hates me, and I look away. I look down. I try to drown out the noise, the never-ending stream of words that come flying out of her mouth like a thundering swarm of bees. I don’t understand what she’s screaming about anymore, the words all blend together. I make myself small, tiny, invisible. In my head she is far away, a buzzing mosquito in the distance, a radio blaring somewhere on land while I’m underwater. If I can just look down and hear her like a distant echo, I’ll be OK. It’ll be over soon. She’ll stop and all will be quiet. Calm. Silent.
Silence. Stillness. In the silence the world is open in my head. I lie back on the ottoman in the living room, legs dangling above the floor, head dangling on the other side. I look up at the ceiling and imagine the world upside down. What would it be like to live up there on the cottage cheese-textured upside-down floor? What if all the furniture were up there instead of here? How would it stay there and not fall down? How would it feel to walk up there, in the air, flying free? Would right-side up become upside down? What would it feel like not to exist at all? How does it feel when you don’t feel anything? What does it mean not to be? When you close your eyes and never wake up is it black and empty? Like the big open stillness of outer space? Is that where grandma is? Does she feel nothing? How can you feel nothing if it’s nothing and you can’t feel?
The buzzing is getting louder, sharper. She is screaming high pitched noises, grunted, throat-scratching words like a dog barking.
“LISTEN TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
I tune back in.
“YOU MISERYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”
I am miserable.
“LOOK AT MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”
I turn my head to look at her, hoping this is the end.
“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOUUUUUUUUUUU?”
I look at her and say nothing. I know this is the kind of question that needs no answer. My eyes are moist, but I hold back the tears. If I cry, she’ll give me something to cry about.
“GODDAMNIT! WAIT TILL YOUR FAHDER GETS HOME! YOU MISERY YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!”
It doesn’t make sense to call someone misery. I know she means that I make her miserable.
She stomps off into the kitchen, still shouting. I am alone. It’s quiet. The tears begin to fall. I sit on the floor, hugging my knees, head down. I know I am bad. I just don’t know why. And I don’t know what I can do to be good again. I bang my forehead against the wall. Once. Twice. Three times. It hurts. There is no way out. I am a bad girl. I know this because she hates me. She hates me, hates me, hates me. (But how can I be bad? I don’t even know what I’ve done. Hitler was bad, and I haven’t done anything close to what he did.)
But she hates me.
Hates me
hates me
hates me.
I am misery.