Slamming doors

I was on the run for a murder I was blamed for, even though I hadn’t committed it. For the first time in about fifteen years, I had cried again—not for a father who had disappeared, but for the living back home. After a major argument, my mother left me alone in my room with a massive guilt complex: “You’re just like my ex—he could never control himself when things got too much for him either!”

Because I didn’t want to babysit my younger brother and sister yet again, they got angry. My (bonus)dad spoke up.

“We’re paying for your education; we’re giving you every opportunity, and when we ask for something in return, it’s too much for you.”
“I didn’t ask for this; I already do this every day, and then they start arguing and I have to step in again.”
“We have to work when you’re on vacation, so it’s only natural that you, as the oldest, make a little effort and know how to control yourself.”
“At least I speak up when something bothers me.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That you guys throw all kinds of things at me, but you don’t dare say anything to each other. As far as I’m concerned, your mutual accusations are unspoken but deafening, and I’m sick of being the eternal negotiator!”

I saw his face turn red, while my mother covered her eyes with her hands. I stormed off to my room, slammed the door as hard as I could, and then pounded my fist against the wall until it bled. And yes, that might have been a bit much, but didn’t that make me just like him—the aggressive one, the impulsive one, the one who flew into a rage and disappeared when it all got to be too much?

“Come out of your room and apologize to your mother!” my dad said.
“No, why should I? I didn’t do anything wrong. I want to take a vacation now. I want a life of my own!”
“You’ve fallen into a tub of butter, but you don’t even realize it. Things could have turned out very differently for you if he’d still been here. A little gratitude is in order,” he added in a forceful, raised voice, while my mother cried softly, “and if you don’t like it here, there’s nothing stopping you from standing on your own two feet!”

I gasped for breath. Was that what I wanted? Yes, I was grateful that I could lead a normal life after the divorce and that I was allowed to study film, but then why did I feel so utterly miserable at home? Why would I rather sit alone in a little room in the city and wait for the moon to smile at me and embrace me—come away, boy, yes, you’re allowed to be here, yes, you’re enough and not too much.

I had to sort everything out. It was stronger than me. I didn’t want to wait until classes started again. She was in my head and already a little bit in the rest of my body. I crawled out through the window and hopped on my bike, heading for the station—luckily, Shittown did have one, a train station. I took the train back to her.