We are kind of like radios, if you think about it.

Tuning into intriguing conversations, desperately trying to cover up the fact when we are eavesdropping, when we realise we are laughing and reacting out loud to a year 7 “true love” story.

But sometimes we tune into things we wish we didn’t hear. Like the too much information about certain bodily things in life.

But cringing is nothing. There are some things you wish you had your earphones for.

Or where silence should have stayed.

 

 

I lashed the keys, stabbing the volume button. My grip on my paper ball tightened, eroding drip by drip of salt.

No! Stop being pathetic! It will blow over like it always does.

I refuse to listen. Despite the music blaring through my ear drums on maximum volume, there was a whole lot more making my heart thud.

I am surprised at how it kind of resembles a stressful tinge, similar to when you are seconds away on beating a level with the new game you are obsessed with.

But this was a whole lot worse.

I push away at the volume tab, knowing it’s not going to up any further; but going at it anyway as if the phone can understand me...understand my urgency.

Your pathetic urgency.

I press and press, my fingers redden, my hand stiffening.

Enough. Grow up.

I slip off the ear phones, and lie back on my chair.

I close my eyes shut, wishing I hadn’t ditched Pogo and deemed him as not cool. I would have given anything to just hug him again that moment. Not giving a if anyone saw. Not caring if I was considered as a weak, whiny kid.

I huddled my knees close and listened. I was used to it after all; it should just be a muffled noise by now.

But somehow every shriek and every comment pierced me through the hollow walls. I knew it must have been worse on the receiving end.

“Drinking for the fifth time this night?” my mother’s voice was cold with a saccharine shrill.

“Who do you think I am?! Your limp little waitress who’s going to give you room service when you demand it?! Where's my ing salary?"

I heard my father slam a glass bottle down; his heavy breaths like thunder in the new silence.

It’s was only then, I realised I was holding my breath too, waiting for something.

Anything.

“Where’s my thank you? When staffs at those business meetings in hotels you are always off to squeakily say "good evening" to you, and you say "thank you"...so warmly” My mother’s voice almost hoarse; about to crack. I could almost feel that lump in .

My father remains silent. I can imagine him looking down, slowly sliding down; reaching for the bottle again.

Weak.

I hear a clank of the bottle, a gurgling noise.

, I’m right.

For some stupid shred of hope, I thought things would be different this time. Why did I keep trying?

But this time they were.

And I wasn’t ready.

“You know what? I'm going to be like you now! Show you what it’s like for me!” My mother spits.

“No, don’t do that. Don’t become me. Please! I'm sorry!” My father’s voice weak, but genuine.

Glass shards shatter the silence.

A series of shrieks, howls and bitter darts follow, to and fro.

Like air hockey, a pretty traumatising match of air hockey.

Autopilot. Autopilot. It’s always like this. It will be fine in the end. You know it.

But before I knew it, I was shuffled by the stair landing.

I want my ear phones.

I wanted to close my eyes, and wake up to all this being those cliché dream scenarios and the crappy “happily ever after” .

Crappy but so ing relieving.

I want to go on autopilot, just not caring or giving attention to all this.

But I do care. A lot. Even if it meant I was being a weak shrimp.

I need Pogo.

 

I continued to watch the scene unroll.

Looking through the banister gaps, framing what I saw with a film like border, but wooden instead of black.

I wonder if muting their voices and putting on a rocky backing track, like from those awful romcoms we used to watch together, could make this seem comic-like; just a dramatic scene the leads are going to laugh back at.

But I could feel the weight of the words. Enough to make a thousand “light” romcoms sink.

Their mass in deep contrast to the drowsy “light” feeling you experience after drinking a glass or two.

I could see the tears that bled through their eyes, crisper than the glowing filter and resolution added to tears in the silver screen.

No need of emphasis here.

I set my head against the wooden rail, the smoothness of the wood; wishing for everything to be that smooth. But some moments are yet to come, as if this isn’t horrible enough, like rose splinters, I still haven’t quite managed to get out.

“Why is it just words from you?” My mother’s voice was icy but soft, like frost beginning to crack.

“Beautiful words, which you never really define. Have never really def-, you y-you know what? Forget it!"

“Lisa!” My father cried his usual booming voice now mousey.

He watched as Mother rushed up the stairs to her bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her; muffled sobs intended to be quiet soon fading into a light drizzle of snores.

I creep into the room. Covering her huddled, almost womb like stature with her thick duvet.

“It's going to be ok.” I whisper. “Things always seem better in the morning; well at least after a bowl of cereal, and our round of Noughts and Crosses on the fridge. I am going to beat you tomorrow, so be ready!”

I gently kiss her forehead. No stench from . I felt proud. She didn’t become him. I hope she never does.

About to leave, I hear him slog up the stairs.

I shove past him, hurtling towards my room; although I knew it wasn’t really his fault. It was never his intention for things to be like this.

The tears in his eyes still linger in my thought.

But why didn’t he just listen?

Why didn’t he try to change?

Weak.

I fiddle and tear apart the tissue I didn’t realise I had scrunched up in my hand.

Tearing it away, bit by bit, pretending that it was slowly disappearing.

You don’t need it. Loads of people go through this sob story. You’re not the first. So it up and get on with it.

And it gets better usually anyway.

Mid tearing- I hear whispers through the dark.

I creep out, edging towards my door.

“I am so sorry Lisa. I am so sorry.” Father’s voice whispered. I could sense tears glazing his eyes.

My mother’s snores still soft.

“You have always been my best friend; always there for me, always guiding me through the awkward silences with other people in school.”

A little chuckle escapes him, yet unlike any other, it was a pained one.

“Thanks for not letting me give up on my degree and for making the best tea I ever tried in my life. I love you, Lisa; and I wish I could love you the way I should."

He pauses; his voice almost a squeak.

“But I can’t. Not you. Not anyone. I wish I wasn’t like this. I wi-"

I race back to my bed. Piling pillows over my head and trying to silence the sobs threatening to escape.

He's just drunk as usual. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He'll probably forget what he's saying by tomorrow.

I wish.