Vicky Shi (9) | Staff Reporter
Auntie glared at me from across the table. She’s always glaring at me, the way you would scrutinize a cockroach, so full of disgust and loathing.
“Stop that insolent tapping, will you? It’s distracting and especially disrespectful when your grandfather is talking. Can’t you behave for once in your life?” She spat.
“But-“ I cut myself off before I said anything else “insulting” at a family dinner. I clenched my hands. Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, don’t say anything. My fingers drew blood on my palm, itching to tap the table once more.
“May I be excused?” I gritted out, my patience at the end of its line.
“Are you alright?” My mother asked, her voice practically dripping with insincere concern.
Of course, I’m not okay. I’m never okay. When was I ever okay? I wasn’t okay when you told me to be normal, I wasn’t okay the day you decided to spill my biggest insecurities at a family reunion for gossip. I wasn’t okay the day everyone decided there was something wrong with me, and you agreed as if your stupid inflated ego was worth more than my non-existent self-esteem.
“Oh, I’m okay. I’m just a little sick, is all, ” how many times did I say that, and never meant it?
“Foolish girl, you know if you don’t take care of your body, nobody is going to respect it,” some other distant relative, sniped.
“Just bear through it. We only come together a few times a year. Cherish these times, it might be the last time you see your nana,” Auntie said, patting my head, “Cherish your family and love your family, they are your roots. Oh, and maybe cut out some of that pie, your putting on a bit too much weight for your height.”
Was it possible to insult someone in so few words? Yes, of course, cherish your family, this may be the last time you see me alive at this rate.
“Yes, of course. I must’ve been stressed lately.”
“Over what? You have nothing to worry about?”
Can someone have a Master’s degree from Cornell and still be so uneducated? Yes, apparently.
“Oh, just… school,” And the fact that my OCD seems like a me issue, rather than a you-never-tried-to-help-me issue. Maybe it’s that I want to jump off a building every day I see your face, and every time I get reminded of how “difficult” or just straight up “wrong” I am.
“Are you thinking about boys again? Oh is that why you did your hair for school this week?” My mother asked, inspecting my face, as if I had written all my intentions on there, but to her, I probably did. Why did she always assume it’s for someone else?
“Oh a girl like her? She’s not going to find anyone at this rate,” Auntie commented, her arrogance never fading.
“Oh please, coming from you? Must be hard to live with a useless son and a cheating husband. Thanks for the advice,” I spat.
“Enough!” My mother slapped me, and I felt the red marks on my skin even before her fingers met my face. I didn’t want to back away, nor did I want to stay under their scrutiny.
“Useless child,” I drown out the voices, the voices bickering about the success of so and so’s son, and university applications. I run out of the apartment, chasing the endless stars. Maybe there the road will one day come to an end, and maybe then, I can finally stop. I can finally step over the edge. Maybe then, I will finally be satisfied. Maybe then, I will finally be happy.
