Amelia

by Rebecca Mannor, San Diego Jewish Academy '23

January 13, 2021

"Applied Equity" by Angelina Ochoa, Canyon Crest Academy '22

CW: sexual assault, self-harm, suicide

Clink. The silverware clanks against our china plates. Juices drip out of my father’s hearty steak. My mother stands in the doorway, a platter of mash potatoes tightly grasped in her hands. She smiles at me, but her blue eyes defy that timid grin. Even after we devour the first course, she remains in the kitchen, feet planted on the linoleum tiles. It’s illegal for mothers to join in on any family feast. One day, I will be in her place, smiling as if the world doesn’t bother me. Smiling as if I am treated equally. Smiling as if I am proud of my husband when he entertains our guests, his voice echoing through the halls. And all I can do is smile and nod my head with every word that he utters. A grunt escapes my father’s lips along with the words, “....”. I have noticed my father never refers to my mother by name. I wonder if she even remembers it. A small shake of her head and the sound of glass shattering. She is on the floor, hands protectively over her head as my father looms over her. Rage rolling off of him, wine dripping from clutched palms. Two hits and she bleeds a corsage like the one he gave her when they were eighteen. Three more and her bruises form a bouquet of black eyes. One more and she whimpers, the closest to an apology she can offer, the scarf around her neck leaks crimson sap from her throat. I count her breaths as he regains his posture and strolls out of the kitchen One. Two. Three. My chest rises and falls to the rhythm of her sighs. “Clean up this mess”. His voice is ice as the bedroom door slams behind him. Thoughts of footsteps ringing off the walls. The force leaves me with vertigo as I stumble to my mother but she only shakes her head and shoos me away. Tears adorn her rosy cheeks as silent sobs shake her small frame. I wonder if she feels beautiful now. The scarf turns a deeper shade of maroon. Instinctively I finger the cool silk around my own neck. The mark of every girl and woman. We interrupt this program for an important PSA... The television in the family room stutters to life with the weekly announcements. Pixels of color infiltrate the entire room. As a citizen of Earth, we have rules and customs we must abide. Look at your father, a brave and strong man. Look at your mother, a beautiful woman and an excellent cook. How lucky we are to live such wonderful lives.”

The blinding screen flickers to pictures of families. They look just like mine. A perfect image. A father mowing his lawn, conversing with neighbors, watching football. Smiling. A mother baking pies, cleaning and dusting cabinets, vacuuming the house. Smiling. An elder son, captain of the soccer team. Straight A student. A younger daughter. Smiling. Blonde ringlets and piercing blue eyes. A scarf dotted with colorful polka dots. Smiling. A house a shade of cream, outlined in grass unnaturally green and a white picket fence. The women are smiling. They look almost happy. Almost. Here on Earth we like the way things are. There is no need to change nor grow. We are perfect. Perfect. Always perfect. I want something besides “perfect”. The bile in my stomach heaves up into my throat, burning my insides. Precipitously, the world whirls. Clutching my chest, I try to inhale and exhale. Deep breaths. One. Two. Three. I need to escape. I can’t keep faking my happiness. I can’t keep pretending to be perfect. We aren’t perfect, we never were perfect. I remember my surgery. Just four years old I was petrified of those big hands that held me down as I went through the procedure. Surgeons looming over me, utensils catching the light. Silver instruments laid out like play toys. The thought makes the bile return and a headache clouds my vision and my steady breathing catches in my throat. Grabbing everything I need, I tiptoe to the front door, only one thing on my mind. I slip off the silk scarf and finger my throat. There is still a scar, a gash, that will never heal where my vocal chords once reside. Now gone. Just as I reach for the doorknob, my mother approaches. She never takes a step out of the kitchen even though she wants to. For the first time, I notice the chains around her ankles, clanking against one another as she takes a step backward. I no longer want to be a captive in this world. Pointing toward the door I mouth Please. Pain immediately erupts from my throat. I want to tell her to run. To come with me. To search for freedom. Her eyes scan mine, both pale blue, considering my plea. Her mouth twitches and I let myself believe she will truly be free. Reality crashes back as she forces a smile on her face and shakes her head. No. In that moment I go back to when I was three. My father slips one hand on her waist and picks me up with the other. That was the last time he ever said her name. Amelia. Tears stream down my sunken cheeks, but I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Regaining composure, I stand. I can’t be perfect anymore. I don’t know how to be perfect anymore. Were we ever really perfect in the first place? Reaching past my mother I grab the closest knife. Fear floods my mother's eyes as she drops to her knees and pleads, but I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to be this twisted kind of perfect. She reaches her arms out but I am already too far away. The chains keep her in place as I point the blade towards me, my hands shuddering. I steady my grip on the handle, debating whether to go through with this. Before I can decide, pain floods through my whole being, the blade lodged between my ribs. As everything fades to black and my hands feel slick with blood, I wonder, “Is this what freedom feels like?”