The darkness within my silence

Chapter Four: Turbulence Without Boarding A Plane

I gasped in shock as I came face to face with my mother's furious expression. I shook with fear, wondering what my offense was this time. The terror of punishment gripped me far more intensely than any curiosity about my transgression. My mother was a complex woman, often inscrutable, and she operated by a shifting set of rules. For instance, she might instruct you to always mop the floor by 6:00 AM. Yet, if she were to slip on the freshly-mopped floor, she'd accuse you of plotting her demise, completely disregarding her own directive.

I took a silent breath, hoping she wouldn't detect the sound, then looked up to meet her gaze. "'Good evening, Ma. How was your day? I hope it wasn't too stressful,'" I said. This was my customary greeting, a stark contrast to the cheerful 'Mummy, you're home!' or 'Did you bring me treats?' that other children sang with excitement. My own formal greeting came out mostly with the dread of being beaten, or of becoming the unfortunate target of her stress from work.

"'What's good about this evening?'" she snapped, her voice laced with anger. "'It seems you had ample spare time to visit someone else's apartment to play, so much so that you lost track of the hour and I arrived home before you did. Aren't you supposed to be waiting at the front door, diligently doing your assignment, like every responsible child?'"

"'But Ma, I was with Bro David. He was helping me with some of my assignment that I couldn't grasp on my ow..—'"

I was trying to explain when a heavy slap hit my face, making me feel like I was caught in severe turbulence without boarding a plane.

The force of the slap sent me stumbling back several paces. I clutched my stinging cheek with both hands, tears blurring my vision as they began to fall. "That will teach you not to interrupt me when I'm speaking," Mom stated, her voice a steely finality. "And consider that a warning. I'm capable of far worse."

She continued, her tone unyielding. "Besides, you could have simply received the explanation and returned to your post by the door. That's hardly an excuse."

"Yes, Ma'am. It won't happen again," I choked out, the words of an obedient daughter, the one she clearly expected.

A profound ache settled in my chest, a yearning for a different life, a different home. I didn't crave riches, only the simple, ordinary grace of being treated like a normal child. I longed for the unconditional love of two parents, for them to genuinely see my existence. Instead, I was a daily reminder of a mistake, a mistake I hadn't made, hadn't contributed to, and couldn't possibly control. I was merely the outcome of their error, a consequence of a birth that was no fault of my own, an inevitability I had no power to alter. The wish to simply vanish, to escape the suffocating grip of reality, gnawed at me. But where could I possibly hide?

Mom's voice cut through my despair, a sharp, almost theatrical edge to it. "Sorry for yourself? Empty the contents of my bag and put them in order. Once you're done, set the kitchen so I can prepare a proper meal. If I leave it to you, I'm sure it would be our last supper." There was a sliver of humor in her words, a dark, wry jest. Had it come from anyone else, I might have dissolved into laughter, rolling on the floor with mirth. But it was my mother, and the humor, if it could even be called that, couldn't find its way to my lips.

I gripped the heavy bag and carried it into the kitchen. Inside, nestled among other groceries, were cuts of meat and, conspicuously, dried cow skin. I knew, with a familiar pang, that the cow skin was meant for me. For years, proper meat had been forbidden, my mother’s decree being that I was "outgrowing my peers" due to "too much comfort." So, the tasteless, nutrient-void cow skin became my portion, a stark reminder of my place. Sometimes, I wondered if only foster children were treated as the family's black sheep; my case seemed uniquely bleak.

I tidied the kitchen with practiced efficiency, waiting for her to join me. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, a sharp knock echoed from the front door. "Pearl, go check who's at the door," Mom commanded, already pulling ingredients from the fridge.

I walked to the door, my heart a dull thrum, and found my father on the stoop. With him, things were... different. He wasn't the kindest of fathers, but at least he mostly minded his own business. That, in itself, felt like a small mercy.

"Welcome home, Dad. How was work?" I asked, my voice calm, almost neutral.

"How are you, Pearl? How was school today?" he replied, his tone softer than Mom's, but still carrying that familiar undertone of expectation.

"Fine, thank you, sir. Let me take your bag inside." I reached for it quickly, desperate to cut the conversation short before it inevitably circled back to my academic standing. I consistently poured my best into my studies, hovering between the top one and three in my class. Why being the first was such an all-consuming obsession for them, I couldn't fathom.

As I stepped into my father's room, a weary sigh escaped me. You could never truly please either of them. One simply hated me without discernible reason, while the other tethered every gift or kindness to my grades. That's why I buried myself in books; yet, those who truly topped the class seemed like geniuses, their brilliance an impenetrable mystery. The frustration was a constant ache.

I set his bag down on the floor. A glimpse of something shiny, a small nylon peeking from the side pocket, caught my eye. Curious, I reached for it, pulling out a used condom wrapper. My hand recoiled, dropping the evidence as if it had burned me.

Dad is cheating. The thought slammed into me. Why else would a used condom be in his bag? Besides, I packed his bag this morning, and there was nothing like this in it. My mind reeled, trying to piece together the fractured reality, when my mother's voice, sharp and cutting, sliced through the house.

"Pearlllllllll! What are you doing? So you left your maid to cook, did you?"

My heart leaped into my throat. With a panicked swipe, I shoved the wrapper back into the bag, burying it deep, then scurried to the kitchen to help her