I think of that night and I remember.
How loudly I slammed my bedroom door, and how the whole house reverberated in its intensity.
I sat down on the edge bed. My lips pursed and jaws clenched. My brows furrow, as I shut my eyes. I hear myself count to 10. Steadily. My breathing, heavy.
Behind the door, silence followed momentarily.
A shout breaks it.
I remember my bedroom door being forced open, releasing a barrage of disdain and disappointments, hurled with such force and intent.
I remember my blue bottle, the one I used as a makeshift vase for my dried-up rose.
How I gripped it hard as I smashed it on the tiled floor, pressing the broken pointed end of its neck on my wrist as I screamed out threats.
I remember Papa’s calloused hands grabbing the broken bottle from my hand. He is old, I overpower him, breaking free from his hold.
I rushed out of the door, my heart beating fast. I grabbed the keys to the locked gate.