Sara

Sara

Jul 26, 2015

934

1 Min Read

I walk briskly down the stairs. Father is ready to ask me questions.

“How was your day today, Sara?”

I am excited. I know the answer to this one.

“Very good, father. And yours?”

He nods, and I feel a faint sense of pride, that I have pleased him.

“Fine, fine. What have you been doing today?”

I have prepared an answer for this one, but still I am not so confident.

“I stayed in my room today.”

“Mmhm. And what have you been doing there?”

I feel uncertain. I have never been asked this before.

“I have been... Thinking.”

“Oh? About what?”

For the first time in my life, I create a proper answer on the spot.

“About the birds, father. Oh, how they sing! I do wish that I could sing like them - ”

Father hits me across the face.

I don't feel the pain. I am in shock. What did I do to displease father?

He looks at his hand as if it is dirty.

“I'm so sorry... Sara. I didn't... I... I should go.”

He leaves the house.

I wait. He hasn't told me what to do.

I decide to go back to my room.

I walk up the stairs, and I can hear them creak under my weight with every step.

creak

A sound...

creak

A reminder that I don't belong.

creak

A reminder that I will never be his precious little Sara, no matter how hard I try.

creak

Sara used to sing.

I stop by the window, and watch father walk down the street.

He's going to the cemetery; of course, where else?

I sit down (creak), and gently study my legs.

I move them back and forth: creak creak.

Father hasn't oiled my legs in a while.

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