Parents For Sale

𝐿𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑖𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑡. 𝐼 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡. 𝑃𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑚𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒. 𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠? 𝐼𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑑, 𝐼 𝑐𝑙𝑖𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒. 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑦.

version 2

It is 5 p.m. and I am told to go to bed. It's summer, the sun shines through the orange curtains. Outside, I hear children play. It's not bedtime at all. I can't sleep as long as I still hear voices and footsteps in the house. There are voices in the room next to mine. An angry male voice, my father answers and not much later pounds on the wall. Be quiet, he roars, I warn you, don't make me come to your room. What did I do? What did I say? I am in bed.

My father is the man who spanks me on command.

St. Nicholas gives him a hand by giving him leather house slippers to hit me with. They last about two years. I have to lie over his knees, he lifts my skirt and spanks my buttocks. Is he counting or is he watching the clock? I don't cry, what's the point of crying? My father is a coward, a man without a will. He yells when my mother tells him to and after that, he whistles or sings while cleaning the bathroom and kitchen. To Michiel, the boy who helps him garden, clean the car and garage on Saturdays, he never yells. Nor does he hit him. Michiel is 16, paid with money for his presence and I with the blows of a mat beater, the riding whip, my father's leather slippers, one of the many dog belts (chains or leather) or my mother's high heels. If it stopped there I might have kept my parents but I don't want them anymore. I am tired of their swearing, the waving of knives, the throwing of chairs and I don't want to polish all those shoes anymore. I don't want to iron the laundry, sew the clothes, set tables, make beds. I don't want them to touch me and certainly not kiss them before I go to bed. I want to get rid of my parents and that is why I am putting them up for sale.

- Ԁɐɹǝuʇs ɟoɹ sɐlǝ - Slıddǝɹs, ʍɥıd ɐup Holʎ ᙠıqlǝ ıuɔlnpǝp

[The picture will not be shown]

As a child, you have to be smart. Do not cry because if you always do you can not impress your violent parent. I don't know who's worse my father or my mother. Once in a while my father is kind but only if my mother is not around. If she is at home we have to be quiet and we all obey. My mother is the queen. Always late, always in front of the mirror watching her hair. She asks me to tell her if I see bold spots between her hair at the back or anywhere. I point a few places at the sides of her head where she combs and sprays. Her hair is similar to the queen's. I don't tell her about the huge bold spot at the back of her head. I don't care if she looks like the fool she is.

_{It rains underneath the umbrella. I am always in the rain just like Eeyore is followed by a dark cloud. This could be me if this girl does not wear shoes. My mother always leaves me outside or throws me out into the street for punishment. Always when it's raining, always in winter, always barefoot, with no coat and umbrella, so imagine the coat and umbrella aren't present. And those blushes on the cheeks? Those are from slapping my face or they are inflammations or burns. So this is me or maybe it is you. source}

My mother is weird

and that's why no one plays with me, not at my house. She scares children but also adults. Her mother and sister are terrified of her. They both beg my mother, 'Please don't go,' my grandmother whines. Why does she say that? I had already kicked my mother out the door.
I don't tell anyone what she's really like, I'm not believed anyway. My mother can be very kind, buys expensive gifts for others and gives money. Everyone thinks I'm a crazy child just like her. She has a twist in her head, my mother says. I think a squiggle is something like the tapeworm I saw on TV. That worm eats you inside. I don't have such a worm, but my mother does. He'll eat her brains and come out of her ass later, or not. She has a big ass. I see it if she crawls underneath the cabinet to check if there's dust.

I don't know when it started but my mother punishes me even more and beats me up. It's no longer a father's job. Hurray for feminism. Good for her the word child abuse isn't used yet. Cinderella has an easy life. At least she can sleep undisturbed in the ashes and she has a godmother, someone with a magic wand. I have two aunts only and a housekeeper or maid. They watch how I am beaten up, scolded and ignore it. Those few who tried were sacked.
One aunt doesn't like my mother and I never see her, the other is afraid of her sister and doesn't come often. You can smell scared people and you can smell mean people too. That's why I stay away from my mother, I don't like her smell. No matter how much Lancôme she sprays, I can still smell her sharp, pungent odour. My father's nose must smell bad.

It's an ordinary day.

I never know what will happen and what she will do when she is home. Of course, she is furious. It doesn't matter what the reason is, she takes it out on me. She hits me on the back with the steel Brabant stool. She screams, rants and I run down the hall while she chases me. I flee into my bedroom and close the door. There is no lock on it so I sit against it so she can't get in. She curses, swears, bangs on the door but I don't open it. How do I get out of the room unseen and if I do, where do I go? Jumping out of the window from the first floor is a solution. She continues to swear and swear and then it becomes quiet. Peace at last?
In a sweet voice, she says: K, honey, will you open the door? Mom isn't angry anymore.
Did the wolf of the 7 goats show up behind the door? I doubt what to do. Sooner or later I have to open the door. She continues to babble but I don't answer, I'm sobbing and she must have heard it. She doesn't say a word and I hear her footsteps leaving down the hall. They don't go down the stairs, I don't hear the front door slam and no car leaves. I recognize the engine of her car from thousands.

It is quiet. I hesitate and decide to sit on my bed. From there I can see the door but I am also trapped. I sit huddled in the corner. Then I hear a noise behind the door. When I look up I see her grinning, triumphant face in the window above the door. She climbed onto the stool to watch me, to know what I was doing...

Note: This is not a story, no fiction. If you like to talk let me know in the comment line.

Header/Photogrid: Canva
Picture: @freewritehouse - pixabay.com
18-4-2024
I am a mobile phone user only

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