Mary became aware of the flaws of mankind the day her father sat her on his lap and told her to beware of strangers on the streets. He stressed about safety, to never follow men or women alike if Mary did not know them. No matter the sweets they offered, and especially chicken nuggets- for Mary loved them- “Listen to me, baby. Don’t follow strangers, okay? Ask them for the secret password before anything. It will be: Love conquers, love prevails.” The six-year-old child with sparkling forest-green eyes and luxurious chocolate hair nodded; her mother wiped breadcrumbs off her face with a handkerchief the scent of fresh lavender.
The nodding child grew with time, her stunning smiles framed the walls famously in pictures in their living room. Mary went to sleep with a full stomach and fuller memories everyday of what she’d seen, smelt, touched, heard, and saw throughout the day. The warnings her father religiously repeated every other day whisper gently at the shallow corners of her mind unforgotten, yet Mary never feared men. She never came to be twitchingly paranoid of adults that passed her by on her way to school; like any other child, she thought she was safe.
She arguably was, whereas others weren’t.
Her sense of security never bloomed to be questioned. It was not her fault as she hadn’t known better. Mary thought herself old enough to know the difference between a suspicious person ready to kidnap her and to all the unforgivable imagined. (by her parents, not her)
The six-year-old grew to twelve without a hitch. She became aware of world poverty; the girl would continue to eat till she was full. The television reports news about child molestation! Terrorism from around the world led by a single religion Mary would now become just an inch more suspicious of. But life would proceed on anyway, the news came to be stored into another box, in another corner of her mind.
Mary wasn’t concerned of anything just yet. She hadn’t the need to work as she had an education to complete. The brunette’s grades were average, she had boy crushes every now and then. A girl confessed to Mary once, the girl would leave scarlet in her cheeks as Mary accepted the request of a kiss on her cheek from the blue-eyed senior to be rejected (and remembered) by.
Mary would, in years to come, remember the warmth that lingered on her lips as they touched the girl’s cheek. Both were equally boiling scarlet afterwards, Mary came out as bi-sexual six months later after some serious self-exploration.
The blue-eyed, persuasively alluring senior’s name was Samantha, she was a year older than Mary and confident in her love for girls and the way iced-lemon tea tasted. Samantha’s hobby was star-gazing and she had a pet stray cat named after one of the eighty-eight constellations. Samantha was also with circular burn scars from cigarette butts on both her forearms; Mary not once asked how, or why nor had she questioned Samantha’s reluctance to return home on a common basis.
Mary’s journey to 15 was butter-smooth, no strangers dropped by with promises of honey sweets and chicken nuggets. Her parents were fine about the early self-discovery. But they wanted a grandchild, her mother had said. The brunette then smiled ironically to herself after the apparent ‘acceptance’.
Days quickly progressed to years and when Mary was 18, she finally experienced lovely humanity in the most common, but ugliest form: bullying; it had taken place among her college mates.
There was a guy named Jack in their year, Mary witnessed first-hand when the mocking jeers turned for worse and guys Jack’s age shoved him around the college’s more desolated corridors. The brunette watched on while she learns to disdain those that look down, even act against the weak; yet not a single finger was lifted for Mary knew fear and it was unfamiliar but natural response. Self-loathing left a bitter aftertaste, Mary learnt.
Cold sweat would run down her back as she saw Jack’s long sleeves lift to reveal cuts that’d decorated the young adult’s pale wrist. Based on the light in his eyes, Mary read, Jack’s intention wasn’t to die. Not yet, at least. And for any other reason than that, Mary could only imagine in guilty silence.
There came one day, despite everything, as Jack entered the class with dimming hope in his eyes for a better experience throughout his year, ‘Maybe they’ll be better off without me.’ He’d think inwardly, only to see a strip of paper with a string of numbers written atop in delicate curves. ‘Call them’ was written below- like an afterthought. Jack could only smile as the thick fingers to hold the paper trembled.
He recognised teardrops when he saw one (and maybe a bucket more), they stained the fragility of the hotline. Jack recognised the cowardly, yet brave act of simple kindness. He wept soundlessly as he could afford it, a soft ‘thank you’ rested gratefully upon his lips. Being the earliest to class had its perks.
At the age of twenty-five, Mary happened to turn unwell financially. It was unfortunate, for her company came out bankrupt for the entire world to know and in a week’s time, the brunette found herself to be quite panicked. Job hunting was on top of her list, but alas, life wouldn’t have it that way and Mary had her breath taken away by a seemingly charming man in her apparent vulnerability.
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My mother lived alone before me; she had rented an apartment in a decent neighbourhood as her job had paid well before its downfall. Justin was brown-eyed and eloquent; a bartender with dimples sunk in his cheeks as he smiled a boyish grin that had Mary head-over-heels in her drunken state.
They slept a night together, a sunset passion; mother had been quick to assume a life together in the few hours of intimacy she had with Justin. The father I’d never come to meet left her in cold sheets and a child too young to understand. Jobless, upset, and haunted with wretched morning sickness, Mary turned to her parents in tears and she lived under their roof once more.
Mary’s mother had comforted Mary in ways only a mother could, she brushed the existence of the bunch of cells as ‘an early grandchild.’ With sadness to sink ever so subtly at the corners of her wrinkled eyes. Mary would forever come to recall the soft embrace of her mother that smelled of fresh lavenders. The daughter’s own face against the fabric that was wet with tears, the choking sobs that sounded unfamiliar even to her own ears.
Helplessness became an unwelcomed, but ever-visiting guest by Mary’s side. Her own father had found it difficult to look in her eyes for weeks to come. But for love existed, Mary was kept warm and full, clean and as happy as can be. Six months into the pregnancy, and my Mother’s parents passed away from a building fire at the Mall they shopped baby clothes.
Mary lacked time.
She hadn’t a minute to breathe, or grief for a loss so great. There were properties to settle, and an income to maintain and a foetus to nurture. The funeral- God, the funeral. She hadn’t even the heart to witness the final forms of the people she held so achingly dear. The scent of lavender faded slowly from the house- home no more-, the entirety of particles escaped with every swing of the door or window. Like wild pigeons that leave their cages to fly and fly and fly. Never to return.
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I was less than amused with the idea of family when I grew to be four years old under the care of my distant relatives. I mean the word literally in both a familial and emotional sense; my uncle and aunt have tried so hard to be tolerant, but the coiling disdain readied to spring at any moment could not be hidden before the sensitivity of a child so young. With the abundance of mirror neurons, I remembered relating the twitch of muscle underneath my uncle’s eyes to a stick to my upper arms.
The lines of blush reminded me of the framed bamboo painting I’d see hanging at the narrow house’s corridor; only one was in ink and drawn with adoration, while my arms spoke stories of a jealousy failed to be kept hidden underneath the family’s creaking bridge.
“Quiet!” He’d yell, “Keep making that godforsaken noise and they’ll be no dinner for you, boy.”
To be starved ever so often wasn’t an easy task to get by; to remember the reason why was an even more difficult feat. It was soon I’d learnt to never speak unless asked, or act unless told to. Relief yourself without a noise, drink your water in small sips to minimise the slightest leak from the plastic cup- Uncle detests noise; he loved to drink himself stupid in peace and silence.
The kindergarten I attended was compulsory for the most minimal of education. The load on my bad felt weightless in comparison to the weight I’d been forced to carry to ‘burn the excess energy.’ My steps were light, always soundless. My eyes were often glassy and they never made direct contact with any others- I learnt the hard way that eyes provoked fights you never needed.
The adults known as teachers always smiled. They taught of alphabets and numbers, shapes and stories I quickly became fascinated by. My attention was undivided during classes, even if my name was never called due to my small stature and hunched back among the many other bigger, brighter kids.
There was never really anyone by my side and it didn’t bother me. Uncle disliked it when I spoke of company anyway- I did once, before my first day of kindergarten- he’d lashed out, most probably because he had none of his own. I knew then of dislike; of hate and I hated. Hated. Hated. But not really.
Aunt had been voiceless, spineless, as she always were. It was difficult not to categorise her as a disdained individual in my head. I learnt to despise my aunt because I could; yet I was afraid to hate my uncle for he would’ve somehow known, and if he did, pain would soon follow.
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Things changed when I made it just before high school. I was fifteen and angry with the world without my words. I was too young to work and Uncle had made sure I knew it. Often, if not daily when he remembered. His fists would connect with my jaw as he demanded for cash I could not give. I was growing tired with every bruise or cut I sported. It was growing tedious to tolerate the pain. Uncle’s drinking habit had visibly escalated and I grew to detest the tang of alcohol anywhere near my lips or nose.
Hopelessness became a familiar friend and I knew things about it better than I knew my own parents. The teenage hormones weren’t helping the rapid swings of moods that sometimes flared up within me, I could be drowning in melancholy at one moment and drenched with an ice cold ‘what’s the point even,’ at the very next. Intrusive thoughts of murder came knocking once upon a time; uncle was asleep, snoring away the cheap booze. No one would’ve known. Plus, we lived in the outskirts where forestry was rich and the earth soft and the community ignorant.
And so, I did what I had to do; what I could and did.
Even after he was gone, aunt remained as quiet as always. She hadn’t wept by his gravestone, the crease between her eyebrows merely deepened. Disdain and regret continued to mount her with new streaks if grey hair every day.
Then came a woman before the door one day, she introduced herself as Mary, mother of mine, I knew then whose eyes I took after.
Her hair was a beautiful shade of brown, equivalent to the colour of the dirt I buried my uncle under, within drifting leaves, beneath the watchful setting sun; it should be cool in there, I only took his head and nothing more. Dug out his eyes with my own blistered fingers as I laughed hysterically, “See? See! Do you see? The leaves of bamboo falling is beautiful.”