He lies on the floor, a stake through his heart, and my own does not flutter. I am not afraid, and I feel no regret.
“What the hell makes you think you’ll ever be anything other than what you are right now? You can’t even make it as a waitress in a diner whose big lunch rush is twelve people, you think you’re going to move to a new city and somehow you won’t be such an epic fucking disaster? You’re always going to be clumsy, you’re always going to be screwing it up!”
I watch his lips. If you focus on one thing, you can distance yourself from your surroundings – I didn’t learn it anywhere, just started doing it and now I never cry when he yells at me. I used to watch my plate, keep my eyes glued on my greasy peas, but then he’d ask if I was listening, yell twice as loud, so now I watch his lips. They move so fast they’re almost stop-motion, and I track the path of his spit as it flies on every ‘p’ and ‘f’. There, on the napkin. There, on the side of his glass of beer. There, like a bull’s eye in the centre of his chicken cutlet.
In my mind, he is a monster; and because he’s a monster, the people cheer when he dies.
“You think I’m going to support your ass when you run off, you’ve got another thing coming! It’s one thing to live in my house and barely pay rent, at least you’re chipping in with the cooking and cleaning but there’s no way I’m going to pay for you to slum around Chicago and do exactly what you’re doing here but there! And no one there is going to give you slack just because you’re my daughter in the big city, do you understand that? No one is going to put up with your shit! You hear me?”
I nod. It’s always best to seem engaged. People run out of steam when there’s nothing to bang against, like a boxer who’s done nothing but reps and reps of shadowboxing. You gotta get in the ring or you’ll think you hate the sport, and there’s no point screaming when they’re already on your side. So I nod.
I never duck my chin, never hide behind my hair. I wear leather because I am not ashamed of the shape of my skin. When I put my stiletto on the stake and push, the crowd cheers.
“You’re bored, you don’t run away from your life. You stop hiding and try to make something of the life you’ve already got! When you run away your life just comes with you, and I promise you there isn’t anything there that we don’t have here. You watch too much damn television, it tells you everybody can be anything they wanna be. Some people aren’t made for anything but getting married and having some kids. You want a better life? Start dressing nicer and get a boyfriend.”
The monster is never kind; he never makes me soup when I’m sick, or brings me ice cream to soothe a broken heart. The monster did not carry me three miles on his shoulders when I sprained my ankle on a hike, or sit with me patiently every night while I learned long division. The monster does not love me – and I do not love the monster back.
Image courtesy of Hayley Mechelle Bouchard. Her work can be found at Little Cat Photography, with more information about Hayley on Our Contributors page.