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Why do men hurt me? What the hell did I do to deserve this?
Am I not good enough? Is my DNA damning me still?
I’ve made peace with who I am. With who I was. My childhood gave me Atty. I wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.
But some fundamental part of me is broken. Somewhere deep down where I can’t reach. Something hormones can’t change. Something in my soul.
This porch doesn’t creak like the old one. The screen door is still being held together by dreams and duct-tape. The actual door is open, and the inside of the trailer is like a stab of nostalgia.
Not the good kind like when you see a cartoon from your childhood. The kind that makes everything take on a hazy hue. Dark blues and purples, yellowing like fading bruises.
Dad never hurt me with his hands. It was always words. And sneers. And looks.
The lack of looks. How he wouldn’t acknowledge me when I was in the room. How I could disappear and come back late, and it was like he didn’t even notice.
It was the eye rolls and the scoffing. Never using my chosen name.
My name.
Because it’s mine, and no one can take it away from me.
The living room is like digging up a time capsule.
Those pillows have been here since Mom was alive. They look like they’ve been living in the dirt with her, and she’d be horrified to see them now.
It’s dark, and I can’t even guess if it’s because Dad is hiding away or if he just hasn’t paid his electric bill.
“You’re not Blair.”
Coming out of the doorway that used to belong to Dad—and likely still does—is a paper-thin, withered looking man in a wheelchair. He’s missing a leg, and his hair is more salt than pepper, but I know those cold, distant eyes anywhere.
“No, I’m not.”
Blair takes after our mother. Fair skinned and features that make his Korean heritage visible to people who meet him. We both have dark hair and dark eyes, but that’s where the similarities die.
My skin holds a deeper tan. My hair curls like it’s trying to be a Harry Styles knock-off.
You could never tell I’m part Korean. Because for some reason this pathetic excuse of a man’s genetics won out.
“I would have cleaned up if I was expecting company.”
I scoff. “No the hell you wouldn’t have.”
It’s hard not to watch him when I can practically hear his bones creak and crack as he places his arms over his lap. “I suppose you’re right.”
There was a time when I could remember Dad’s smile. When I could remember being held and read to. Roughhousing with plastic containers as makeshift wagons.
“You look like shit.”
My words don’t startle him. They don’t phase him at all.
“That happens when you’re dying.”
Dying.
“All that hatred finally catching up with you?”
His laugh is ugly and wet from years of cigarette smoke and weed. “Heart failure.”
