The Woman Sitting Next To Me

The Woman Sitting Next To Me

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             ‘Can I tell you about what happened to my parents?’

‘Ah, you're finally ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sure, I'll listen. Why tonight though?’

‘I feel like I’ve finally got someone I can trust.’

‘I.. well..’

‘No, it's ok. You don't have to say anything. Please, just listen if you will.’ 

‘Of course. Come sit with me.’

This woman sitting next to me.. is it right for me to put my pain on her shoulders? Is it right to take the weight off of my back and let her into the parts of me that I’ve walled off from others for so long? I’m so very conflicted, but the gleam in her eyes tells me it's alright. 

‘Alright so.. hmm.. where to start. I don't remember much from those days, well, from when my parents were alive. I’m unsure if my mind just tried to lock those memories away deep in my subconscious, or if I really did just forget. I can only really remember two events vividly. Maybe the first one will help you understand my circumstances and relationship with my parents.’

‘Alright.’

‘We lived out in the countryside. Our nearest neighbors were several hills over and we rarely ever saw them out in the fields. On one hand it was wonderful to have all that space to myself, but on the other, it was unfathomably lonely. I only ever had my mom and dad around me. I never bothered making friends because I was never allowed out of the house except to go to school. The same was true for my parents. My mother didn’t work, but my father worked as much as he could to help us afford food and a roof over our heads. Sometimes my mom would bring people over, but I never did find out who they were to her, or why they were the only ones they let into the house.’

‘Why didn’t your mom work if your dad was working so hard?’

‘She was.. unstable I think. She could never control herself. I never minded when it was directed towards me, but she was especially terrible towards my father. I’ll.. I’ll get to that though. The first event I can recall, I think, is a good example of what I mean.

I remember there was one night.. I must have been about four at the time. We had some of my mom’s guests over, whom I didn’t really like, and I didn’t eat when all the others were eating. I asked my mother once they were gone, as timidly as I could, something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry… may I please get something to eat?’

I knew I had to ask that way. I had learned those manners early. I fought with the thought of even asking in the first place. I knew, I knew deep down that I had slipped up the second I said no to the food the first time. Some part of me that knew the pains of hunger would be better than pushing my luck, but something got the best of me. 

The yelling that ensued was directed towards me, and only towards me, like all the rage a human could muster was brought out in that instant.

‘YOU SHOULD HAVE EATEN WITH THE OTHERS WHEN THERE WAS FOOD ON THE TABLE YOU LITTLE FUCKER!’, she wailed in that shrill, piercing tone of hers. I still tense up when I think of it.

‘I’m sorry.’ I told her. ‘I know I should have. I really do. Please. I’m hungry.’ 

I remember she raised her hand to hit me, but turned around at the last second and threw an empty wine glass at the wall. I watched it shatter and the pieces fell at my father’s feet. He just sat there and watched me, arms crossed, with a look in his eyes I couldn’t place. Was it disappointment in his eyes? It wasn’t anger. Was he cringing at me? It wasn’t hate either. I still don’t know. Maybe he wanted to help. Maybe he just wished I wasn’t there so that he didn’t have to. Maybe he wished for my mom to stop yelling. I don’t know. 

I remember scurrying over to my room and hiding under my covers. I could hear muffled moans and blows being landed. My father never could bear to see me in pain. He took the beatings in my stead. Even now I feel guilt that he should bear the pain intended for me, but he took it. My dad.. he was always too timid to fight back against the savage beatings my mother laid onto him. He took it all so that I could be free of it. He was a great man.’

‘I see. Was it then that it became.. well.. where you needed to refer to him as ‘was’?’

‘No.. no. I think it's time to get to that. It must’ve been about four years later, so I was around eight.

I came home from school one day to my parents having a particularly bad argument. I’d always come home as late as possible so as to avoid listening to them. If it meant doing my homework outside, staying after school somewhere, or just taking a long way home, I would. When I’d inevitably get home, I’d always go into my fathers study. Something about it calmed me. For some reason I can’t explain, the yelling always seemed so distant in that little room. I knew every inch of that study. I knew the names of all the books on the shelves, I knew which papers belonged in what folders, and I knew which drawers contained what. 

I took one of the books from his shelf and went outside to read. After finishing a few chapters, I snapped out of the trance that reading would put me in. I went back inside, and noticed that the house was silent. It was such an uncomfortable silence.

I came in through the back door and walked into the living room when I saw him. My father.. he was knocked down, sprawled out on the floor. Blood trickled down my father’s frail face, and everything went quiet. I could only hear my heartbeat and the droplets of blood pattering rhythmically on the hardwood floor. 

I ran over and kneeled in front of my father, but no words could come out of my mouth. I wanted to scream and yell and plead for help, for anything, but I couldn't. No words ever came. 

My dad.. he reached out his arm. It was riddled with shakiness, and his outstretched hand brushed my face. The blood felt cool on my cheek. 

He lifted his head as high as he could, and I saw him mouth two words:

‘Help me.’

He was pleading with me, and I could do nothing.

My eyes darted over to my mother, sitting so calmly on the sofa, smoking a cigarette. How could she be so calm? My head was flooded with so much in that moment, but I remember nothing of the next moments. I saw red. That was it. 

I woke up to a silent house with no recollection of the previous night's events. I called out to my parents and received no response. In a daze, I went downstairs and stumbled upon the scene I had created. I recovered some semblance of myself and the memory of what happened came flooding back like it was ripped from the deepest recesses of my mind to the forefront of it, just to remind me of what I had done.

I still fail to comprehend it, I mean, I truly can’t comprehend what possessed me. The anger I felt in that moment was truly something else. I don’t know how someone comes to be so filled with pure rage. I think it was because I grew up always telling myself to keep my emotions in check. It's.. its not an excuse.. It's really not.. but I.. I just..’

‘It's alright, I promise. Just take your time. It's ok to not know. It's ok to be confused. It's okay to cry.’

‘I.. no. It's.. I can continue.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Whatever happened during the moment I was seeing red is still so hazy, but I must have ran to my fathers study and grabbed the gun from his drawer. I ran back into the living room and stood in front of my mother, pistol cocked and pointed at her.

I can remember saying to her, ‘WHY DID YOU TAKE HIM FROM ME? I LOVED HIM!’

She had no words. First silence, then she looked up with a blank stare, and then saw what I held in my hands. I’ve never seen fear in someone’s eyes as great as hers that day. I didn’t let her respond. I pulled the trigger and watched as her head flicked back and the fine spray of blood coated the wall behind her. She sat there, motionless. I dropped the gun and ran up to my room. I must’ve been overwhelmed and gone to sleep out of necessity. I don't think I could process it all. I mean.. it all happened so fast. 

I made it through the subsequent days on pure muscle memory. I didn't show up to school for several days, and eventually the police arrived at my house. My mouth and body reacted to the questions posed to me but my mind was elsewhere. I ate and drank and slept on autopilot and could only stare into nothingness. There was a sort of primal fear which overran my body. What had I done? What am I to do now? What is to come? Those thoughts and a million others raced through my mind. How do you deal with that?

I can recall telling the police it was me, but they wouldn’t believe a word of it. They just thought I was trying to protect my father’s name. What did it matter? He was dead. So what if my fingerprints were on it? So were his. In their eyes, he was the perpetrator. It didn’t matter what I thought. ‘How could he have done it and been so badly beaten?’ I asked the cops. They never gave me an answer.  

Soon after, I was sent to my uncle's house, and I was ill for many weeks after. I spent my evenings alone, reading whatever books I could find on his shelves. It was as if all passion, whatever leftover happiness flowing through my veins I had while my father was alive had entirely disappeared for the duration of my sickness. 

I remember that room in my uncle’s house well. I would sip on weak tea and recall the horrific images of that evening. I would lie in bed and listen to the sound of faint conversations in the somber evenings. The glow of streetlights would barely shine through my blinds, and the stillness of the room would make the thump of my heavy heart seem so loud. 

I suffered so much imagining the consequences to my actions that I failed to realize at the time that my suffering might just have been my consequences. I was so blinded. I know that the cops never followed up on me being a suspect because I was so young, but it still feels so wrong. Sometimes I still fear my actions will come back to haunt me, but I can’t spend my time waiting and antagonizing over it. I have to keep stepping forward, just as my father always said.

So that's it. That's how my parents died. My father, beaten to death, and my mother, shot by her own son.’

The woman sitting next to me said nothing. She looked me in the eyes and I saw a certain sadness in them. She embraced me, and I felt a tear streak down my cheek.

‘It’s okay to cry, you know. I’m amazed you’re still standing. I’m amazed you could tell me this with such composure. I don’t think I could have without breaking down.’

I sniffled and hugged her tighter.

‘When you’ve lived with something your entire life, it becomes the norm. You know, they say never forget how it made you feel, but how did it make me feel? So much ran through my head all at once that I couldn’t tell one thing apart from the other. I looked at myself in the mirror the other day and I was still the same scared child I was back then.’

‘Maybe, but you’re moving forward, just like your father said, right?’

‘I’m trying. I really am. I just.. I feel so guilty. I know, despite her flaws, that my father loved my mother, and I killed her.’

‘I'm sure he would forgive you if he was still here.’

I let go of her and looked her in the eyes. I said nothing and turned towards the coffee table in front of us. I let my head sink into my hands for a moment before slamming the table with my fists.

‘IT DOESN'T MATTER!’ I yelled.

The jingle of the keys lying on the table reverberated in the otherwise silent room. 

‘It doesn’t matter. I was too weak. I couldn’t control myself, and now look at what I’ve done! At what I’ve become! I’ve stripped her of her life like it was nothing, and for what?’ 

The woman sitting next to me looked at me with pity. I don’t like being pitied, but deep down I know I’m acting like a child.

‘I know you feel guilty. Live your life in constant shame and guilt if that is how you think you can repay them. Or, you can move on and become better, just like your father would have wanted. You’ve lived so long thinking so ill of yourself, but you can make it so that your life no longer revolves around a woman who didn’t love you, and you can embrace the teachings of your father. Why not live a life where you can feel fulfilled? I’ll be there along the way. I don’t mind if it's a slow process. I’ll be there to help.’

I turned my head and sat in silence, just looking at her for a long time.

‘I’ve never had anyone to help me. I don’t know how to let you. I quit involving myself in the affairs of others.’

‘Because it was painful?’

‘Yes. You though.. You’re special. I just..’

‘There’s a first time for everything, right? Let’s try, together. I love you. Maybe not in the same way as you did your father, but I love you and I want to help you.’

‘Alright.’

The woman sitting next to me makes me smile. Maybe the first genuine smile I can remember ever having. I think it’s time to move forward, but this time, I’ll have someone by my side.