I don’t want to be quiet. I’m not going to say I’m sorry. I’m not in your way, you’re in mine. For once, my ego is going to rival yours.
My voice is going to get louder until you hear me. I’ll rage harder until you see me. This room will be trashed with every ounce of malice I have until you acknowledge me.
This is the unleashing of two decades’ worth of fury. One hundred and seventy-five thousand hours of silenced pain. This is the culmination of all the things I wanted to say when I was five years old but never found the words. The grand finale to the semblance of fragility that was so carefully crafted around the broken pieces of my soul so that maybe you’d find some mercy in the blackness of your heart. You never did.
This is the answer to every time you mockingly asked me what was wrong. You were wrong. Life was wrong. This was wrong. All of it was wrong.
I’m not sorry. This is me, breaking. Breaking into roughly one million shards of shattered hopes and expectations. I wanted family Christmas. Vacations. Reunions. Laughter around a holiday dinner table. For Easter maybe we’d see the cousins. I’d bring a casserole to Thanksgiving.
This is me, making as large a scene as I possibly can. Not because I want revenge. But because a three-year-old was once afraid you were going to leave her behind and you threw her into a wall when she cried. Because you took an eleven-year-old’s dog away, and ran her six-year-old brother’s fish down the garbage disposal, and raped her mother. Because at some point, something breaks, and then it’s all over.
It’s all over. I’m making a scene.