11:18 P.M. I looked back at the dark ceiling, and sighed. The windows were open, delivering the fresh scent of summer to the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my curtains billowing with the wind and the occasional twinkle from the navy sky. It was hot. My sheets were mashed into a pile and cluttered at my feet, at the end of my bed. My large white t-shirt was ruffled and forced into a pile of wrinkles above my navel, which welcomed the warm breeze. It was August 9th, but not for long...
I glanced at the clock next to me. 11:22 P.M. I shifted on my bed, changing positions so that my side met the mattress and I could see the wall. I could hear shuffling beyond my room, the echoing laughter of the telly wafted between my door cracks, and strings and ribbons of gold light glided across my wooden floors, courtesy of the hall lights. I sensed movement on the other side of my room, and sat up in time to see shadows momentarily replace the lights on my floor.
My parents.
Or my more specifically, mother.
I rolled my eyes and let my head fall back into the feather stuffed pillow. A fleeting moment of drowsiness invaded my ten-year-old senses, before I rubbed my eyes and twisted my body to look at the glowing numbers again. 11:31. I felt anxiety well up in the pit of my stomach. In a mere twenty nine minutes, it would be tomorrow, and today would be in the past of the new day. But not just any day. It would be-..
"Destiné, are you asleep dear?" My lips pressed shut and I was dead quiet until I heard my mother sigh and walk away. I let out a breath of air I wasn`t aware that I was holding in.
It`s been like this for a while, between my mother and I. My mother would try to get close to me, try to bribe me and be my friend, try to reinstate that mother-daughter bond we once shared. The family bond that she destroyed in a single notion. I`ll never forget that afternoon.
It was a cool afternoon. The clouds floated by to block out the sun and provided temporary shade for the earth below. I was eight, and running around the one story house, trying to avoid capture from my mother and the prison of the dreaded bathtub and its soapy evilness.
"Destiné! Get back here!" I heard my mother screech as I jumped on the couch with tennis shoes caked with dried dirt. I giggled madly when I noticed my father in the background laugh in amusement before putting up a grave façade when my mother shot him a look.
While my mother fussed over the couch, I rushed into a nearby coat closet, closing the door before giggling and backing up slowly in between the heavy coats. I felt my back touch the closet wall as I sidled against it to close the little path that I have created through the clothing. I yelped as I felt my foot slam into something and my body fell forward, unable to stop when my legs did. I pick myself off from the chest that I tripped over, and rubbed my side before feeling my 8 year old curiosity aroused.
The chest felt cold underneath my fingers and there were bumps and ridges forming patterns and strange inscriptions. I felt a latch and worked my fingers on it, prying open the lid. It was dark in the closet. Too dark to see anything. I groped around in the chest, until I felt something solid, cold, and thin against the back of my hand. I shifted my hand to grab it and pull it out, and I held it in front of my face. It was still too dark to make anything of it. After some fingering and biting the foreign object, I made it out to be nothing more than a wooden, handheld stick.
Now I was baffled; why would a simple wooden stick be kept in such an intricately designed chest? And why would the chest be advertently kept hidden? Before I had time to dip my fingers back into the chest for further exploration, or even process the questions in my mind, the closet door was suddenly ripped open, so sudden that I jumped in shock and landed clumsily through the coats I had worked my way through earlier, and in the plain view of my mother, who wore a triumphant smile on her face.
"There you –" She paused in the middle of her statement abruptly, and I saw her silver-flecked blue-green eyes, the very same I proudly fashioned, traveling to the stick in my hand and to the dark pitch of path I had made when I fell through the clothes. I knew she was eyeing the open chest, and I watched anxiously as a variety of emotions displayed themselves on her face: Horror, fear, anger, shame, shock, and a few others that I decided weren't important enough to name. Her eyes flickered back to me, realization hitting her as though she just woke up from a trance. She looked extremely upset, and much to my shock, she slapped me. Hard. Across the face.
My head stayed frozen in the direction she slapped me, in shock. I couldn't move. My mother had never struck me before, nor has my father. I could feel that my mouth was agape; I think a fly could've flown in and out of there without my realizing. I vaguely felt something wet trail down my cheek where I was struck. I was sure it was blood. My mother's wedding ring must have shifted so that the diamond that jutted out from the band dug into my skin from the harsh contact. I could also faintly feel my eyes burning as I heard my mother speak.
"You are to forget what you have found. This moment has never happened, and we will not speak of this ever again, to anyone." Her voice was trembling, but at the same time, it held a tone of commanding neutrality. As if I was to just forgive and forget, that her word was law.
It still stung where she had hit me, and now I could feel hot tears trickling down my face. Without thinking, I shut my eyes, threw the stick in a sort of mindless defense mode, and fled from the closet, past my mother, away from the chest. I sprinted to my room, regardless of blurred vision and racing thoughts, and slammed the door when I reached my haven.
I ran my fingers over my left cheek in sheer instinct. I flinched slightly as I ran my index finger over the scar that overlapped my cheekbone and drew downwards, reaching the point where it was less than an inch away from connecting with a corner of my lips. The pain was numbed now; it disappeared with the respect for my mother. I scratched the tip of my scar anxiously, before retracting my arm back to my side. I turned over on my bed, facing the ceiling once again. The moon had begun to peek into my window frame, giving my room a slight glow. I could see the shadows of clutter on the floor from the moon's light.
I glanced over at the clock for the fourth time.
11:52.
I groaned inwardly. Time loved to tickle at my emotions. Why didn't time pass by this slowly during that day at the park, when my best friend, Dean, was throwing a birthday party?
That was an exhilarating day indeed. I recall there being brightly colored balloons scattered about, and cake, and ice cream, and that petting zoo. It drew much attention from the youthful public. Why, it even drew the attention of..
I felt my heart pound more heavily against my rib cage. I glanced at the clock again, and hopefully for the last time tonight.
11:59.
Anxiety welled up in my stomach, as I sat up, my t-shirt falling over my stomach as I did so, and glared at the clock, willing it to speed up time. I stared at it intensely, starting to count it down.
45…
This is it…
39…
My heart fluttered impatiently, and my gaze on the clock hardened..
26..
It's almost time..
21…
My thoughts began to drift to my best friend, Dean again..
13…
I wondered if he was as excited as I was..
9…
I stared, fixated on the clock, my mind racing and at the same time, I was completely focused..
2…
YES!
The clocks numbers finally flicked 12:00 AM, and I grinned, satisfied. I leaned back into my bed and got comfortable. I felt the sudden, full consequences of denying my 10 -, I mean.. I smiled to myself as my eyelids slid over vision. I felt the sudden, full consequences of denying my 11 year old body sleep. My mind drifted off, and I faintly acknowledged the feeling that tomorrow will be a different day. A monumental day.
Before I completely slipped into a world of dreams, I heard my own voice in my head echo.
Happy birthday, Destiné Parkinson.