There is little language for the shameful sensation of a scolding; emotions run hot, the face crumbles into a grimace and tears stream down the face. Dinner becomes unpalatable as your mother berates your idle behavior and comments on your carelessness. She shouts it’s out of concern for your character. Your siblings follow your example, how will they obey their parents if they don’t see you do it? You cannot even see the trash, popping up in your eyes, to take it out, why would they? You think you would help your mother – you see her cook every day – if she leaves dishes you don’t ever wash them. It comes to a boiling point before you can say anything, she threatens to slap you if you do not stop talking back, but you only feel you’re answering her hot questions. You cannot eat as she does, lambasting you between bites of dinner so you excuse yourself to the bathroom. The green beans are salty with tears and phlegm from your runny nose. You could not eat or even cease your crying as your two adoring siblings pay you a visit, as you hyperventilate and snivel. If nothing else, your sadness deepens at the thought of presenting such a pitiful face. Your father’s coaxing to continue to eat are hollow; he often sits in silence as you butt heads with mother. The consolation from your siblings offers the most comfort you felt today, despite some puerile thoughts of knowing yourself earlier in the day. To think this whole tiff came about from a cranky retort.
The chill in the autumn air only adds to the drizzle’s sobering effect on my temper. After an eternity of remarks from mother, a walk would be the only solution even if a tempest awaits outside. My tolerance for the tirade was long overwhelmed so I took my oversize winter coat, keys and slid Reeboks over my heather gray socks. I did not look back as I hooked a left, wind cutting through the loose pajama bottoms I made an exit in. Hunger flashed in muted pangs; my appetite craved for an outlet to this torment. With shameful cowardice, my thoughts painted a picture I was out of the image, a runaway or other demise. Tears continued as I pictured my brother and sister, a firstborn example absent from their lives. I cannot stomach these thoughts or my present hunger resurfacing as I long for an escape.
Maybe my escape is here, in these thoughts I pencil, the same way a library holds novels and my portfolio hosts my memories. Ceylon Park awaits, devoid of life as no one visits during inclement weather. When it pains, it roars; my spirit rages at my current station. I am soft on my own crimes, hard on my art and malleable for others’ manipulation. My only respite is a photo, one I take or enjoy, with my own devices. My sadness as I look out at the scene below, an empty soccer pitch, a heavy rail line along the horizon, drizzle and haze obfuscating my view, my aim is true. There is no doubt, when it rains, it pours.
