I should’ve been ecstatic. I didn’t really enjoy them anyway. But knowing it was Adrianna who suggested it only hurts my feelings—something she will come to do more frequently over time.
There are two versions of Adrianna that exist—the one my father sees and the one that only appears when he’s not looking.
It isn’t until my father gets sick that she lets her true self really show. Never in front of him, of course. The mask only comes off when he’s out of sight.
The personality reserved for me is far crueler than anything my dad sees. It was gradual at first, like the comment on my eleventh birthday about making me as pretty as her with help and time. Little jabs to bring me down a notch.
The harshness of her words come in waves, beating me into the rocks before giving me a split second to catch my breath. But right when I think I can paddle against the current, I’m swept back under all over again.
“Your father is so disappointed in who you’re becoming, Cirella.”
“You’re weak, broken, achild.”
“A waste of space.”
“God, you can’t even clean dishes properly.”
“No one will ever want you as a wife.”
“You can’t even take care of yourself.”
“No wonder your father is sick. He can’t stand to be around you anymore. Hopefully, I’m next.”
I can’t do anything right, ever, no matter how exactly I follow her instructions.
But her verbal scolds and lashings eventually reach a boiling point and find tangible, physical outlets—always in the form of a slap, a trip, or a shove of my shoulder.
The first time it happened, she cried and begged for my forgiveness, and I did, accepting her tears.
Just as her verbal abuse has worsened over the last several months, so have her temper and the speed of her hand to my cheek anytime I speak a word she doesn’t like.
But even more unfortunate than anything else in my life thus far was when I discovered that my dad was holding a life-altering secret close to his chest the night of my eleventh birthday party. One that he was forced to tell me when he collapsed that very night.
He’s sick … incurable, and the clock is rapidly running out. We were only lucky enough to have another year together, a year I will always cherish.
Instead of spending the day after my twelfth birthday playing with presents or relaxing, I’m spending it in my dad’s room, where he’s been deteriorating, fading away more and more these past months from the man I’ve always known.
It’s odd how your brain can numb every cell in your body in a time of crisis. No emotion. No pain.Nothing.
I should be crying. I should be bawling my eyes out until not a drop of moisture remains … but here I am, without a frown on my face, holding my father’s hand as he clings on to life, each passing second taking him further from me.
My lack of expression is no reflection of the storm brewing inside me. Agony lingers behind the blockade in my mind … swirling, taunting, waiting for its chance to strike at the most inopportune time.
I’m a failure—a damn failure—when my dad needs me the most. Even at this moment, something is wrong with me, broken and crooked.
Honestly, at this point, I’m not entirely sure if the voice in my head sounds more like her or me. All I know is that the second I can escape this cage, I’m gone. For good.
That’s what I’ve been told repeatedly this past year by my stepmother, who’s now staring at me with nothing but repulsion in her gaze.
I’d like to think that a silver lining in this tragedy is that my mom and dad may finally be reunited. I’ve always believed them to be true soulmates.
As hard as my stepmother tried to force my father this past year, I know he’s never loved her as much as he did my mother.
My stepmother and he look the part well enough, playing the roles of doting husband and wife.
But in the end, she will never compare to my mother, not in his mind, nor in mine. I think he was perhaps lonely and didn’t want to leave me the same when his time came.
My father coughs, wrenching me from my thoughts and thrusting me back into the real nightmare before me.
