At 20, she was still learning about the world and herself daily. She had a softness to her that only she knew the full extent of, and if she were to be honest, she enjoyed that part about herself. She was the kind that would often look up to observe the world around her, her eyes panning to give her a full, panoramic of her surroundings. Upon listening to a heartfelt song, she was the kind who would empathise with its words and melodies, and even feel tears welling up in her eyes at times. She was the kind that would enjoy a cup of coffee with herself, rather than having an audience in front of her. She was that sort, and up till now, she believed that was who she would always be: observant, empathetic and solitude loving.
Despite and because of her softness, she understood that this world could be cruel and cold. It was a fact one would have to learn as they grow up, and she was no different. She swore that this world, no matter how cruel, would never take her softness from her. To her, it was her softness that defined her, and if anything, she would not let the world strip this away of her. She did not want grow old miserable, with every thought and feeling dominated by her own problems and her own problems only. It was a promise she made herself ever since she was young, for she saw how it left those around her cold and void of appreciation for life.
However, she never anticipated that her first taste of this coldness would surface within the walls of her own home. But it did. At first, she ignored it, half-thinking that it would just be the one time. The one time became two, two became three, three became four, and eventually she lost count. Encounters with the harsh and the cold, are, after all, not something one would keep count of. Eventually, just like everything else that took place often enough in the everyday, she grew used to it. It didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. It did, but quite simply, the pain became just another part of her life.
And then, one day, it hurt too much. She wasn’t sure why it hurt so much—the range of her perpetrator’s words was no different than before: stupid, useless, easily manipulated, can’t think for yourself. Perhaps it was the fact that she refused to stop when her daughter pleaded for her to stop, perhaps it was the fact that her ears only worked in hearing the reverb of her own words, and perhaps, most of all, it was her unwilling heart to empathise. Her daughter, for the first time in months, wept and wept. She wept at church when the hymns were sung and prayers were made, and she wept again the following morning.
The tears, eventually dried, and so did her heart. A hardness came over her heart, and it was then, that she realised she was losing a part of her softness. Indeed, she was, but it was the only way she could keep her softness — or what’s left of it — intact.
She could not, would not, allow her mother to take anything more away from her.
IMAGE SOURCE
