The Daughter Was Not Supposed To Be Hurt

By Vidyanshi Mittal

She should’ve tried to make sense of it, but she didn’t. Who would? Isn’t a home supposed to be one for comfort, not riddles? She would soon find out that in her case the comfort is what the house feeds on. It takes it away until it starts to thrive with the stillness in the house full of people unwilling to let anyone, each other, be. She thinks sometimes the walls feed on her hurt, specifically hers for some reason. 

She makes a beeline towards her room, seeking silence, knowing within seconds she would need to stop the endless thread of thoughts that aimed at her anyway. Never will she ever be able to learn how to withstand them. They’re cruel, and make her reflect, on herself, her family, and the godforsaken window between them whose glass turns a little opaque each day. The dots weren’t much apart as to not be connected within a coherent thought, and isn’t that appalling? They all fight and make up but do not bother to fill up the cracks that shake up the genetically bonded group and filter out all the love and compassion one would suppose they’d have for one another, seriatim, agonizingly slow but each time so gripping and consequential. She detests the idea of figuring out what she should not do about her family, but don’t we all? We all choose to ignore it, and so will she. 

She steps into her room, swipes the black strands of her hair, and tucks them behind her right ear. It was instilled in her mind to keep walking while looking at the floor. It was kinder and did not make her feel bad about depositing her weight on it. But this time the inevitable happened, even the floor looked annoyed at her. So, she decided to not face it and dared to look up.

As she looked up, she let out a gasp and stumbled backward a step as she saw her parents, brother, grandmother, and cousins, all staring at her, giving a disapproving head shake. The same people who forget to check up on their rifts under the mindset that maybe bliss truly does lie in ignorance. They look as if she killed someone and doesn’t even know. She gives them a timid smile hoping someone would mirror her, but their expression never changes. She doesn’t know why she sees them randomly, and if she does, why cannot she make them smile? Not even a little crinkle by their eyes. Perhaps even her delusions refrain from misrepresentation. It was her fault she expected that she could make them stop seeing her as a failure when she failed to change her perspective herself in the first place. It all comes down to her and her self-abominating approach, doesn’t it? She is spiraling again. 

God, the walls must be devouring their meal today. 

Then she blinks. And they all go away. The walls were smirking. She could feel it. They will stare at her ominously and joke about her piteous stance, with the ceiling, then maybe the fans and bulbs will sneer along as well, and she will do nothing but abashedly allow them.

She lays in bed with her blanket over her head and feels safe as if the blanket shields her from the sniggers the walls throw at her. She eventually falls asleep, squirming every two minutes.

In her dream, she sees her family, and it all repeats. She lets out a whimper in her sleep.

The walls wail helplessly. Now, the courses of bricks have no choice but to spiral alone.

By Vidyanshi Mittal