I could remember the last time I saw my dad, shouldn’t that mean I’m happy to see him? Well I’m not. My dad tried to kill me. That’s why I was stuck in a stupid mental institution. I cracked; but now I’m out and he insists that I see him. I’m so scarred but I’d never admit that, but my seeing my father again is my biggest fear. When I was at the institute they told me it was never my fault and they told me sitting cross legged can calm you breaking and things that are common for you and counting backwards from ten will help me face him calmly. So here I am today sitting cross legged in my favorite sweats and t-shirt waiting. I know he is coming I hear him downstairs. That’s when I heard the first creaking on the stairs; he’s on his way up.
He enters.
I was so scared you could hear my heart beating as if I were a humming bird flying. Why is he doing this why did I agree, questions flying there my brain, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. He sat next to me and I has to fight the screams that threatened to leak out he spoke no more than a whisper “I’m so sorry, I never meant for this to happen, I never meant for you to be sent away you never did anything it was me and I know that now I’m so sorry I let you become a victim I’m sorry, and I hope you can believe me that soon you will forgive me.” I sat there looking at him, I was quiet I wasn’t going to talk. I swore I would never talk again. I stood up and talked to one side of the room and grabbed a piece of paper; I wrote “I am not to talk; I am to listen, orders from the institute that I follow completely, so now I do not talk.” I handed him the note, I sit back down on the bed in my plain light blue shirt and classic white sweat pants. I figure he is done reading my note by the way he stares at the wall, contemplating what I’ve written. He looks at me and I can see the hate and trauma in his eyes, I see maybe I’m not the only one who’s suffered. My father, the one I knew before he tried to kill me, was a tall dark haired man with vibrant blue eyes. Today he stands before me a man that has been beaten down with misty eyes and salt and pepper hair. This man whom once was my father has gained at least a hundred pounds. I wonder how much of this is due to what he did to me.
To this day I still ask myself why he did what he did, why did he want to hurt me? What did I do to deserve this? My dad turns to me “Sweetheart what have they done to you? Your room is so...so plain.” I looked around my room slowly taking in the blank white walls, the white furniture, the white rug, in fact the only color at all in the room was the clothes I was wearing and my father black pants, for even his shirt was white. The bookshelf on the far wall held only the classics and child novels, no pain no war only peace. The only electronics in my whole house was the refrigerator, and my alarm clock. I shrug; I look at him and in his eyes I notice him watching my mouth waiting for me to speak and I quickly look away.
He shakes his head in a jerky move quickly “sorry I forgot you don’t talk. When you were a young girl your mother and I couldn’t get you to stop talking and now,” he shakes his head again as if trying to shake the thought from his mind. “Your whole house is white and I remember when you painted your room all sorts of colors and your mother freaked at you for painting the walls. You were so independent even than; and now, you’re so… so…lost.” I motioned for the pad of paper and wrote “It’s how I am now, calming colors are better than chaos. We were told only to read books with no violence or war, only the happily ever after sort. No TV; ever no talking unless necessary. You wouldn’t like the institution it was a whole bunch of kids wearing white or blue depending on their age and completely silent most of the day. It taught me how to deal with the pain of knowing that my own father wanted me dead. So know I live in blue and white. It’s how I’ve lived that last few years. Its normal to me know. You were only aloud 4 pictures and it was the only way to tell the rooms apart. I didn’t have any pictures without you in them so my friends had to memorize my room number 42 or else they never would have found it.” You could stop by for a minute in someone’s room but no more than two people could ever fit in a room and without talking it wasn’t worth it. You had a choice of whether or not to let the person in; it was peaceful I missed it so much. I had an hour of one-on-one therapy every afternoon and it was the only time I ever talked. That was my life for year. I was sent there after I kept waking up and screaming and I could barely sleep and it still took years before I was ready to venture out into the real world. I looked at my dad then continued writing “you were in jail and you still had a better life then me. Why is it that you do the bad thing and I’m the one who is punished for it? “He took a while to read it, maybe he read it more than once to understand everything as he tried to keep his shoulders from shaking. He turned towards me and hugged me and I felt like I was going to die, I screamed silently and pushed him away taking deep breaths so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. He looked right at me as if nothing happened and said in a soft voice “I’m so sorry you’re right, my life hasn’t been nearly as bad as yours. Could you ever forgive your old man? Please I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I hurt you and your mother, I’m sorry I killed your cat Buggy and I’m sorry I killed Jasper. I’m sorry I hated you and your mother I’m sorry for all of it.”
I looked him in the eye and spoke my first words in years “I will never forgive you.”
I get up and turn on the radio in my alarm clock set for classical music and I try and drown him out. I was thirteen the last time I spoke. I was young and carefree always had my head in a book. I found it ironic that when I was a child my father would watch the news and complain about all the parents who hurt their children and yet he was one of them. He hurt me; hypocritical right? I saw a tear in his eye and couldn’t help but think why did he care? It never made any sense why he would hurt us but why he would hurt us and feel bad about it I didn’t understand, he made his bed why was he so upset when he had to lay in it?
My mom runs into my room slightly panicked, “Baby are you ok? I heard your father was out of jail,” she stares at my dad fuming. She looks around my room and says softly “I like what you’ve done with the place its very nice.” I smile softly as my father stands red in the face my mother turns to him “Have you seen what you’ve don’t to our daughter? The wild and crazy one?! The one that loved us no matter what we did? Our daughter doesn’t talk, she doesn’t like color. You’ve destroyed her. I thought you loved her but you I was wrong. I knew she was never your favorite, but you’ve destroyed her life. She can’t do anything; she won’t even eat meat because she thinks killing an animal is the same as killing her.”
My dad turns his head looking at me he says in a low voice “She does talk she talked to me.” My parents continue their bickering and I walk from the room. I slowly leave the room completely unnoticed to my parents, and did what I’ve wanted to do since that night years ago. I watched the red poor down my arms until the blackness took hold and I closed my eyes for the last time.