Sixteen years ago; Achelois aged 'seven':-

I sit on the floor of my bedroom, my back against the door that is shut, yet the yelling is audible and clear all the way up here. I sit quietly, trying to drown all the other noises in my silence itself, but it's not helping. I hear the clanging of pots and pans and vulgar innuendos that are hurled from either side. I'm not supposed to hear them, let alone swear. Because swearing will get me a lot more than just a bar of soap in my mouth. Smoothly, the tears run down my cheeks like always; I chide myself for being so weak as I look at the ceiling, trying to force the tears back down and fan at them like they should disappear.

The session gets a tad intense. Now's the time I've got to do this; again. For the fourth time in six days. I open the door as discreetly and soundlessly as I can. I fish the pair of house keys I'd snagged from the center table when they'd started. It almost slips out of my hand but I catch it back right in time. I decide to remove her slippers lest they flap around the house. I don't want them to notice me; they can go on for forever as long as they get back together to normal the next morning.

Liar.

I hate it. I hate it that my parents fight. The other kids have parents who are quite in love with each other, they don't fight at least. I hate that my parents make it a point to include this in their routine, fighting about simply nothing at all.

That's what I am. A liar, and one who isn't really good at it. No, I'm not that transparent to people around me; it's just me. I always know when I'm lying; I tend to contradict myself and it hits me hard where it shouldn't. However hard I try, it just happens as if it were a reflex, a thing that is adamant enough to challenge my own stubbornness.

I tiptoe over to the balcony and for once, I'm pleased I'm skinny because the hardwood doesn't creak. It wouldn't anyway, but it's nice to pretend you don't hate your lanky body. I lock the balcony doors, and shut the windows as silently as I can. I want to shut the kitchen too, but apparently, they're going at it in the kitchen itself, because the sound of pots, pans and breaking glass is unmistakable.

I descend from the stairs and press myself to the wall, hiding myself from sight as I try to comprehend the reason for the fight this time. Usually, it's some nonsense that is avoided by people who like to waste their time, as well.

My life isn't the usual trope. My parents aren't the drinking type. They are not druggies either. No crack addicts. The reasons aren't a low pay or an affair. In fact, they're respectable people belonging to the more prosperous, educated and wealthy group in the middle class. They don't smoke. They don't physically abuse each other or me, anyways. What makes me so sad?

WHAT MAKES ME SO DEPRESSED?

I sink down, my back against the wall as I sit on the second last stair, legs outstretched. They'll sleep alone today, they'll be grumpy tomorrow. The noises in the background don't fade even if I 'need' them to. They weave themselves into the matter of the place, my body, my soul, and become a part of me itself. They're not serenade, they're harsh and cruel. I sit quietly, wondering why me of all people. Tears stain my turquoise shirt and I allow them to. Sometimes letting go is the only thing I can do to lighten the weight, because it doesn't look all that heavy, but it is.

There's the constant, nagging fear that eats at me. What if my dysfunctional family now, would turn into a broken, separate family? What if they divorce each other? These few thousands of 'what ifs' kill me every night as I try not to shout when I'm fighting a nightmare. The nights I wake up in a cold sweat in my bed are far better than the ones when I have to wake up to find myself shouting. My parents don't know; they never do. They think 'fighting' is a part of life; only that it isn't. Not especially when your eight year old child understands and still thinks it's bullshit they're quarreling about.

Well, if they do, someone should be nominating them for the Oscars, because they hide it pretty well.

When I wake up, I realize I had dozed off sometime in the between. It isn't boring, it's just...exhausting sometimes. The shouting and clattering has stopped, and both the master bedroom and guest bedroom on the ground floor are locked with the lights out, so they're sleeping alone. They probably didn't notice me, or they just decided to ignore me. I'm pretty used to it, so it doesn't hurt as much.

Lying, again.

Yes, I am. There's no point denying it, because my conscience always speaks the truth bluntly. As much as I know the facade I put up isn't what strong people do, but I'd love to be one of the normal people. Sometimes, it feels like you want to blend in with the society and the world, become one of the people who were forgotten after living a pretty bland and boring life; because bland and boring is, at least, SAFE.

I crawl into bed and tuck myself under the duvet, because well, my parents are just too busy to be tucking me in at night and reading a bedtime story to me. I rethink everything about today; they're arguing about nothing, for nothing and they gain nothing as well- and it's all at whose expense? I feel like I'll be termed selfish if I say 'mine'. Is this stress relief, because it's unsustainable and hurtful to me. These arguments are reductive, pointless and it's running me into the ground.

I feel it begin in my stomach like a cluster of spark plugs. Tension grows in my face and mind; the last attack was just less than two days ago. My breathing becomes more rapid and shallow; I feel like I'm drowning, but it isn't the kind which would help me forget. It's the kind where my nightmares are pulling me deeper into the depths of the water. The thoughts are accelerating in my mind, I'm hiccupping and choking. I want to reach out for the jug of water on my bedside table, but my limbs grow heavy and glue themselves to the same position. The room spins, I curl into myself, hiding myself entirely under the duvet, as if that'd stop the monsters from coming to haunt me.

"Mamma, Papa," I whisper hoarsely, but I know they won't come.

I want someone to be here.

I want to open my eyes and look at light.

I want water, I want a distraction; anything at the moment, but all I see is my dead parents on the floor, bleeding out, their eyes wide open. I see them having harmed themselves; I see them having succeeded in their attempt to put an end to their lives; I see myself hopeless, broken- A PAPER DOLL.

In another minute the panic is a deluge of ice water surrounding every limb, creeping higher until it passes my mouth and nose. That's when the attack becomes absolute, shutting my body down as fast as punching a biochemical reset button.

When I have arisen, it's probably been an hour or two. The images from my attack creep into my head, and I push them back into the back of my mind with all the strength I have. I know it only means that the pictures will be back after some time, sooner or later, but I need to calm the fudge down right now, my head's reeling.

I haven't had supper that night, well because they spent the entire evening fighting. I discard my slippers again, and walk downstairs barefoot. The kitchen is in a very disturbed state. There are two broken plates with shards of broken porcelain lying throughout the kitchen floor. I regret not bringing my slippers with me, yet I kneel down and start picking up pieces in the dust pan. A shard or two get into my left foot, and I let out a muffled gasp, take deep breaths, and sit down on the floor, picking it out of my foot.

I facepalm myself in spite of the pain. Now there'd be another shitty job to do, wipe the blood of the floor. I limp towards the refrigerator, this time careful not to step on the glass pieces. I take out the bottle of alcohol- no, not to drink it. It's heavy, but I manage to pour some into a cup. I take one of the kitchen towels, wet it with alcohol and wipe my foot. I don't wince at the burning sensation; I've always been quite brave and resistant to pain.

Pain that is not eating at my insides.

I wrap the towel around my foot and resume collecting the pieces. Once I've carefully dumped them in the trash can, I open the refrigerator again. There's a bowl of microwave-ready mac-and-cheese on the third shelf from the top. I fetch it from there and microwave the bowl of mac-and-cheese. I shut the microwave before it pings at the end so as not to disturb my parents, who're probably sleeping and re-energizing themselves for the next day's session of arguments.

I carry the bowl upstairs and lean against the bed rest as I chew rapidly. It is okay, but it is not as good as Meli's mom makes. Melian has a nice family. Her parents are cooperative, loving and peaceful. Her house is serene. I like it when I'm having a sleepover and her mom comes in and reads a story to us.

Once I'm done with it, I tiptoe back downstairs and rinse my bowl. I come back upstairs and then try to sleep, but since I've already slept, even though it was a transitory period of sleep that was provoked more by attacks to my nervous and psychological systems rather than a good night's sleep. I am on high alert all the way until the morning, sleep doesn't knock on my eyelids, nor do I want to.

I've seen darkness before, the kind that makes our street like an old fashioned photograph, everything a shade of grey. This isn't like that. This is the darkness that robs you of your best sense and replaces it with a paralyzing fear. In this darkness I sit, muscles cramped and unable to move. There isn't a person alive who doesn't fear being closed in, fear being trapped in darkness, fear the monsters who cage us with fear itself. There isn't a person alive who doesn't love the light of a warm sun upon their face, love the breeze in long grasses, love the sight of new blooms. There is always a fire in our hearts burning for the open air, freedom, the ability to dance in any way we wish.

Claustrophobia isn't rare, it's ubiquitous, it's just a matter of the degree you feel it.

So I shut my feelings and emotions down. I turn the switch off on everything, every single thing that'd make me humane, sensitive and most of all, feel. Every single thing. It feels like you're floating in vacuum space. As if there's nothing that's playing forces on you; there's no pressure, just a light headedness that looks like life.

A/N:-

Finally giving you an insight into what might be one of the reasons the summary is so heartbreaking. It's just not a dysfunctional family; there's a lot more to it, so have patience. Dysfunctional families can be toxic; they make you lose trust, not believe in people- but personally, I think it's okay that way.

QOTD:- Do you people watch anime? If so, what's your favorite? Mine is Attack on Titan, lulz. 

I didn't want to update, but I did. I like working on this book. How do you all like it so far?

Stay tuned. Would love to know what y'all are thinking rn. Like, comment and share, pretty please with nutella and sprinkles on the top. Also, the song totally fits the chapter. I'm Faouzia's biggest fan.

I lobh y'all.

Your poor-lidle MayHaPs writer,
Disha 😈🐵🌝✨