Strangers 1 - by Ink Horizon

I think as we grow, we begin to realise our parents are just two strangers who came together to procreate. These two gods, around whom our little innocent worlds had once revolved, were just as vulnerable and flawed as we were. I can’t remember exactly when this awareness dawned on me, but I remember what I felt — grief, coupled with a strange sense of peace. Their sins and mistakes suddenly started to make sense. They weren’t perfect. They never were. That night, the house was thick with tension. Their voices carried through the walls — full of rage and frustration, each trying to yell over the other. It was exhausting to listen to. I lay in bed with my brother, the heels of my hands pressed against his ears to muffle the chaos, to keep out the noise so he wouldn’t wake up. It was futile. His eyes fluttered open. He looked at me with wide, unfocused eyes — beautiful and innocent — grievingly unaware of his gods’ descent from grace, of the growing rift between them. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice laced with slumber yet loud, trying to carry over his obscured hearing. “Go back to sleep, Joshua,” I whispered to him. “Eh?” His eyes searched mine as I closed them, willing their hateful voices away. There was a crash. I flinched. Joshua gripped my sleeve. ♣ When I first heard the term divorce, it was on television — from the movie Liar Liar. Before then, I didn’t know they could do that. In fact, I thought they came and stayed as a pair — two birds of the same feather. Over the next months, almost like the TV knew my thoughts, they aired more movies and series with the concepts of divorce. My curiosity piqued. I read the single line about it from a textbook I snuck from the JS3 section in the library. I’d take my dad’s phone at night when he was asleep and Google it, over and over again. I was confident I knew more about it than any kid my age. I mulled over it. Played with the concept in my hands. Drove my mind’s dentures into it. Sat with it at night. I thought about the perquisites the shows I'd watched liked to talk about; the double birthdays, double Christmases, double everything. But nothing enticed me quite like the quiet that might come with it — the space to breathe, free of the overbearing tension that thrived whenever they were in the same room together. This growing appreciation, this creeping hope for divorce, came with a crippling emotion: guilt. What sort of child prays for her parents’ separation? If I’d learned anything from Sunday school, I was supposed to pray that God took away their misunderstandings and kept them together. So I’d curl up on my bed, eyes shut and palms pressed together, and pray. But time and time again, their angry voices would manhandle my senses, invade my psyche — and soon, what was I even asking for? One night, Joshua was asleep. Dad hadn’t come home. He stayed out later and later every night, almost like he was waiting for Mom to go to sleep before coming in. My mom was seated on the three-seater, scrolling through her phone. I was on a chaise in the far end of the living room, curled into a corner by the windows, playing with the curtains. My brain worked faster than my mouth and I asked, “Are you and Dad going to get divorced?” Her eyes stayed on her phone. “It’d be nice,” I added to myself, barely a whisper. A final surrender to want, sardonic as it may be. She looked up then, her brows creased in concern. “Hm?” “Hm?” I copied, a little too quickly. Our eyes stayed locked for a few seconds. I saw something flicker there; confusion, maybe even fear. I turned away, back to the curtains. Her eyes didn’t leave me for a while.

Strangers

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