When I got
home, I was met with those cold, angry eyes. I was yelled at, but I patted my
dog and smiled like it didn’t bother me. I steeled myself, and returned the
most unconcerned look I could muster. The angry yelling and accusations
continued.
I stalked
away in the middle of the rant, into the bathroom, and stuffed the right sleeve
of my shirt into my mouth and screamed. A silent, hollow scream. I bit hard on
the shirt, but let go and cupped my hands over my face instead. I paced over
the tiles, telling myself to stop, shaking my head back and forth like an
impatient lion shaking his mane. I splashed water into my face, slapping my
palms hard on my eyelids, as if the impact could somehow force the tears back
into my eyes.
It lasted
less than a minute. I wiped my face with my shirt, flushed the unused toilet,
and went out.
The
piercing voice telling me how ungrateful and selfish I was continued when I was
back outside, a recording stuck on repeat. Effortlessly, I glare back with the
eyes she once described as “full of hatred”. I don’t deny it. I would write
down exactly what was said, but truthfully, I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter
to me, and enduring this is worth everything that happened today.
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