Breaking Point

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.  

I’m out.

I’m done.