Ovi -
we cover every issue
Μονοπάτι της Εκεχειρίας  
Ovi Bookshop - Free Ebook
worldwide creative inspiration
Ovi Language
Books by Avgi Meleti
Stop violence against women
Murray Hunter: Opportunity, Strategy and Entrepreneurship
Stop human trafficking
BBC News :   - 
iBite :   - 
Horse made of glass - Part 10 Horse made of glass - Part 10
by Katerina Charisi
2017-07-23 10:26:09
Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author
DeliciousRedditFacebookDigg! StumbleUpon

Her thoughts had carried her away. The sun was up, the coffee cold in the mug and the boys awake. She went inside to put the mug in the sink and shivered as she listened to them clapping their hands and slapping their legs, the boy singing again that horrible song they had learned to sing on the mountains, the little one trying to follow, screaming in joy each last word of the lyrics.

“Climbin’ on the apple tree And climbin’ on the walnut tree
And shout about twice, twice - the - times
Hey, Sophie! Hey, Mary!
Where the children go? They are at school!
Where’s the school? Down the ri - ver!
Where’s the river? Oxen drank it all!
And where’d they go? The butcher came along!
And what happened next? He slaughtered them all!”

k1_400The windows rumbled as they fell on their backs on the wooden floor, laughing.

She tried to picture herself as a little child growing up in this little home. She saw her old- 6? Or was it 8? - Year old self at home, one of the homes she had anyway. They moved a lot. Her mother hated it. But she liked it because she could erase her past each time without even understanding it. She pretended each time she was someone else. A little more of this or a little more of that, trying to find a perfect self that would make her acceptable and lovable. Maybe she just did what her parents did as well, when each time presented themselves to their new friends as a much better version of themselves and their relationship, while things were totally different when they were left the three of them.

She saw the picture of her past very clear, like an intruder of a world to another world, an invisible observer. Her, just a little girl drawing in her room. Her mom ironing their clothes next to her. Her mother spent too much time in her daughter’s room but she never played with her. Sometimes she acted that she was all alone in the room, the little girl - her childhood’s self - talking to her and her mother just pursing tighter her lips while hid behind hot steam, folding and ironing.

Many years had to pass and many times she had her heart broken to find out why her mom was coming in her room and then just ignored her: That room was the only place that was out of her father’s range. It wasn’t her she wanted to be with; it was her father she wanted to be without. She could see it very clear now, each time she slept with the boys. She knew it each time she pretended to be asleep when her husband got home late at night and touched her shoulder. She knew she did the same thing like her mother; each time her husband told her “You fell asleep in the boys’ room again. I tried to wake you to come in the bedroom but you didn’t even move.”

She wondered the impact of her own past to the life she eventually chose to live. How much of this life would be still the same if she had a different past. If her mother hadn’t spent twenty years or so of her life in unhappiness and misery and fights and antidepressants and long silences. If she hadn’t lost her own childhood always wondering what she did wrong and her parents ignored her. She wondered if the life she hated so much, her childhood’s years, relived every day as a grown woman, as a wife; as a mother. Every day and in her own will, without wanting it at all, hating herself every time she did it.

She felt her past dragging her more and more into it and though she knew she had to stay away, she wouldn’t move. She only let it carry her away, like all she wanted was to confirm she was a bad person after all. A failure.

Sometimes she distanced from herself and stood in a corner and watched as she moved around and acted as her mother did, speaking the words her own mother had said first, and though she knew every time that what she did was wrong, she just couldn’t make it stop. She didn’t know how. Words just flew out of her mouth against her will.

She hated herself and took it all out on the easy targets, her children, the only people she could still affect and fully control. Still. But for how long? She knew there would come the time that fear wouldn’t be enough to control them and she knew she would lose them both and still, she heard herself telling them the same things her own mother yelled at her, yelling to herself, because she was too afraid to face her reflection in the mirror and say the same words.  

She yelled at them, yelled at the boy, she broke their toys and sent them to their room, red eyed and hurt and wondering what they did wrong, she yelled at them all the things she wanted to yell to her mother, her father, her husband and his family, all the things she could never tell she screamed them to the boys, for the boys were the only ones who stood still and with their eyes fixed on her eyes, listening to what she had to say, though they hardly understood, but at least they stayed there and listened when no one else did.

She already knew the wrongness of everything she did, she knew she was leading her life into more and more misery, she knew she destroyed what she gave her heart and soul to build, a bond with her children, she knew they would grow up and hated her some day, same as she hated her parents, and though she finally grew up enough to cease hating them, everything they had as a family was lost forever.

Those times she realized she didn’t know what a family was. She didn’t know what to do with it. What she was supposed to do.

Sometimes she sat on the bathroom’s door keeping it shut with her back and rocked herself, knees bent touching her chin, arms around her legs, darkness around her and waiting the husband who never came, always waiting, murmuring to herself it’s such a pity, god such a pity, I’m not a bad person it’s unfair, just unfair, god please help me.

And she thought of all times she just wished to close her eyes and die but she never let the thought complete in her mind, not with two little children needing her. But being such a bad mother, what good was for her kids? They deserved better than that. Better than what she was giving them. Still, she couldn’t find anything or anyone better to replace her with if she’d gone.


“What’d you do if I died?” She asked him once.

He stared as trying to find the right words to answer the right thing, but said nothing.

She insisted. “I mean it, what’d you do?”

“Don’ see the purpose of this question.”

“It’s a simple question. You have two children. You can’t cook for them, you can’t get them to shower, you can’t put them to sleep. You can’t take them to school, you can’t play with them, you can’t put those clothes on, you don’t know what to do if they catch a cold. So I’m asking you the simplest of questions: If I died tomorrow, what would you do?"


Horse made of glass
Part 1 -Part 2 -Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6Part 7 - Part 8 -Part 9 -Part 10 -

Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author

Get it off your chest
 (comments policy)

© Copyright CHAMELEON PROJECT Tmi 2005-2008  -  Sitemap  -  Add to favourites  -  Link to Ovi
Privacy Policy  -  Contact  -  RSS Feeds  -  Search  -  Submissions  -  Subscribe  -  About Ovi