Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Hannah looks into the mirror.
She does not catch the eye of the girl in it. She is afraid, frightened, of what she would see. She looked at the raven black hair, obscuring an eye; the sallow, pale skin; the svelte waist; the slender epitome. With a sigh, she picked up her bag and walked out of the room.
She passes the study. Books were strewn haphazardly everywhere. She looks at them in disgust. 'Books, what good were they?'she thought. She took one up, and her nose crinkled. ‘Ways to communicate with your child’, ‘Emotional Control’, ‘How to tell your child you love him/her’. Useless self-help books. Hannah threw them away. Her mum never loved her.
"Stop deluding yourself," she whispers. It did not turn out the way she wants it and she whimpers. Her voice sounds weak, a harsh whisper.
She walks to the kitchen, a familiar fluttering of paper catching her ears. Automatically, she heads for the refrigerator.
‘Breakfast is on the table. You know that I love you. Love, Mum.’ The note reads.
Hannah scrunches it up and it dropps into the bin, almost soundlessly, the faintest noise of paper against paper, other notes that she throws away as well. She eats the breakfast, and walks toward school.
That handsome boy walking through the corridors smiles at Hannah, a sparkle of recognition in his eyes. She smiles back in acknowledgement, for he is her god brother. A wink was another thing they exchanged, and satisfied that he got her message, she walked off. The girls around her looks in envy, it is not everyday that Chris ever smiles at them. Hannah reaches into her pocket as she walks away. Her present was safe.
Chris was waiting for her at the basketball court, where Hannah stood, in solitary silence. He beams at her, and Hannah feels a sudden pang of sadness. She was desolate, alone. His warm smile did not warm her icy heart. But she smiles back anyway; he was too nice to her. They walk down the road, side by side, talking about daily topics. The weather, school, and how things were going on for both of them. "Good," she hears herself say, but her fingers are crossed. Chris looks almost perfect, perhaps with the exception of the haircut Mum had forced him to cut. She really has bad taste. She is bad.
They crossed the road, walked down the streets, and now, through the dark alley. Chris’s always worried for her. "Molesters and rapists," he says. Such a sweet brother. She should love him. But Hannah didn’t.
"Chris."
He stopped, and turned to her, anticipation dancing in his eyes.
"Happy birthday," she breaths, and thrust her present into his stomach. A dagger. His knees buckle, while her eyes twinkled in delight. His fingers wrapped around the dagger in sheer agony, his knuckles turning white. She wanted him to fall, to close his eyes, to show that he is weak, but he did not. He continued kneeling, and painfully, slowly, lifted up his beautiful head.
"I figured…someday something bad would…h-happen. Considering…t-that your mum" a gasp "poisons you with loving…meaningless words every day." He chokes. He could speak no further, and Hannah feels her self satisfaction growing extensively more. Until he points his finger to his heart.
"Love…" he whispers.
She knew what he meant. It was a secret sign they used to have when they were younger. Her abusive father hated the word ‘love’. Chris and she used it whenever they wanted to express their affection for each other. She shakes her head in disbelief. That was when she was young and naïve. No one could possibly love her. Those who do are liars. She shuts her eyes tight, willing herself to stop letting Chris affect her so.
There was a sudden sound of footsteps. Hannah spins around, and her eyes interlocks with a boy’s. He had seen her, but she merely smiles and walked on.
Mum was home when she got back. Her heart was a void, unfeeling and cold; it has been so ever since the day Mum said those words to her.
"You don’t love me, Mum."
"I do. I love you more than anyone in the world."
"Then why is there Chris? Am I not enough for you?"
"I just needed a boy. Something different."
"Chris is perfect. You love him. You hate me."
"No, love. I love both of you."
"Then why do you keep me at home every day?"
"That’s because you are too adorable for other people to look at. They may want to snatch you away from me."
"Why do you make sure my hair covers my face every second before I got to school? Am I too ugly for you?"
"Your cheek…but you're beautiful in your own way"
"Liar! Liar! Liar!"
Hannah covered her ears, the words still resonating in her mind so clearly after so many years. Mum is in the study again. Those good for nothing books. Nothing she does now will change Hannah and how much her hatred burns for her. She enters her room soundlessly, basking in the excitement of seeing the reaction on her mum’s face when the news of Chris’s death reaches her.
She looked into the mirror.
She caught the eye of the girl in it. She was no longer afraid, frightened, of what she would see. She looked at the neck length shiny raven black hair, obscuring her pretty eyes; the sallow, pale skin; the svelte waist; the slender epitome.
Again.
But this time, she combed her hair back, making it tuck behind her ears. Her left cheek was horribly disfigured; yet was she ugly? She did not want to believe it. But the truth remains, Hannah was beautiful.
She heard the sound of sirens approaching her house. The moment it stopped, Mum burst into her room, wide-eyed in shock. Horror, disbelief and anguish filled her contorted face.
So this is her reaction.
Hannah smiles, listening to the scattered footsteps of the policemen outside her room.
She is in peace.
"I hate you."
Who said it? It did not matter.
They hated each other.

A Beautiful Disaster at Tuesday, June 13, 2006