Valeria Medina

Make it stop

Make it stop

Make it stop

Twenty-eight steps.

That’s how many steps it takes me to get from the living room to the garage. It’s more or less how many feet of distance between me and my parents yelling at each other. My room is only fifteen steps from the garage. That’s how I map out my home. I map it out by how close I am to the garage—the closer I am to the garage, the better I can hear what they’re fighting about. 

My burning house has been ignited by alcohol

Let me paint an image. It’s 11 o’clock at night. I am nine years old and I can’t sleep. How is it that I am in the furthest room in this old house, yet I can still hear everything coming from the garage? I kick off the Monster High bedsheets from my legs. I am now tall enough to swing my legs over my mattress. The rough carpet touches the heels of my feet. The carpet’s an ugly light brown color and the texture scratches my face when I lay on it. 

Make it stop!

It's a winter night. I’m wearing pajama pants that have the batman logo printed all over and a mismatched t-shirt with owls on it. The cold white tile against my feet almost seems to get colder with each step I take. Every step is a step closer to the garage. 

In the darkness I navigate my way through. I’ve gotten good at it, like a shadow traveling in the night. No, not a ninja. I’m a nine year old girl, I don’t like ninjas, I like Monster High and my Nintendo DS and the Kindle I swear I read on, but I’m actually always playing fashion games on it. I turn the corner. I now know why the yelling is so loud tonight. One of them forgot to close the garage door. 

I am standing in the middle of the dark hallway. The distance between me and the garage is ten feet. The garage door is wide open. There’s no light in the house except for the single light bulb that hangs in the garage. The light bulb pours light into the dark hallway. In the middle of the door frame is my mother’s back to me. She’s standing by the freezer. I don’t move any closer. I can hear them just fine from my room. Why did I even leave the comfort of my room? 

“Tienes una hija que le gusta salir…” my mom suddenly says. I am nine, not oblivious. Her voice tells me she is on the verge of tears. I know what this is about, and it’s not about me; it sounds like I’ve done something, but my mom often defends her arguments by using me. 

My dad is always too drunk on the weekends to go out with the family. There must be something wrong in my dad’s life for him to continuously day drink until he’s due for work on Mondays. I do like to go out and do anything with my family and friends—is it my fault my father likes to spend more time talking with Bud Light?

The outing didn’t make it past the front door this time. My mom has an expert eye at detecting when her husband is drunk. Tonight, my mom and I ate bean burritos in the living room after not being able to go to a restaurant as a family. 

My mother has always emphasized family. 

My mother now regards her family with a bitter taste. 

I tread back to my room that’s at the other end of the house. I don’t bother to stay for whatever my father is going to say through his slurred voice. In the past my father has told my mother to shut up—that only escalates their arguments. Other fights result in my mother waking me up. I am always awake, but I pretend to be asleep. When she wakes me up she tells me to pack a bag. We’re going to spend the night at my grandma’s house. And however many more nights until my mom feels ready to return. When we return, my father is miserable. Not drunk. No Bud Light on the ugly brown dinner table. He tells her he will change.

My mother is not afraid of my father.

Tonight is not one of those nights. Thankfully. I think it’s not a big fight if my mom hasn’t come into my room and turned on the light yet. I don’t keep my room door closed, but I should. I don’t keep count of how many minutes it takes for the yelling to die down. I only know it has ended when I hear the garage door close and hear my mother’s chanclas with each step she takes. I hear her footsteps near my room, but they soon fade into the room next door. It’s my parent’s room, and she has closed the door. 

She keeps it open in case I need something in the night, or if I have fallen from my bed. I haven’t fallen from my bed in years now that I’m a big kid. 

I don’t hear her cry. I don’t want to hear my mom cry, but I know she is.

Run away as fast as you can.

~

I’ve tried doing this before—I’ve tried writing about this. Not just this occurrence, but all of them. They’re all a blur because of how many fights there has been. My memories of these bleed into others because of how similar each one is to the last. It’s all the same. All my pieces end with the same unanswered questions and just a little bit more anger than the last. By now I have an entire collection of writings about my father’s alcohol problem. I don’t know what to call it anymore. Problem? Disease? Mental illness? All of the above? It’s all just a bunch of bullshit, people will put a name to alcoholism just to cope with the loss that comes with it. 

I have this dream

What is it?

My parents are separated. Or my father’s alcohol dependency never existed. I live in my own apartment in Seattle or Austin. As far as I can get away 

That’s funny.

It’s a great idea. It’s suffocating inside this burning house

What do you mean when you say you hate your family?

I mean my extended family. I see what they’ve put my mother through all her life. What they’ve put me through and what they’ve said about me too. I can never hate my mom and dad

Do all daughters feel like this?

I like to think so. I like to think that fathers stick around. I also think daughters have memorized the distinct footsteps of each family member in their household like I have

Why have you memorized the sound of footsteps? 

So I can prepare myself for what’s to come and to expect the worst

Suffocating

Suffocating

Suffocating

I can’t breathe why do they fight at night loneliness has followed me my whole life everywhere I go I want to know why my father drinks but I know I will never find that answer I want to know why my mother never left her husband and why I never left either I think there’s something wrong with me you know and I can’t seem to escape the burning house it’s like the structure has fallen around me and I have no other choice but to watch my flesh burn I’ve come undone I can rest now I am enough this is the suffocation I mean am I the burning house stop my father’s rage am I my father’s rage

In the light of the door frame, I picture a family in embrace. Their clothes crease when their arms bend to hold each other. Their heads are bowed, hair touching and tickling their faces. Faces buried in the crooks of their necks, they relieve their yearning and pain. This family cries if they find it within themselves to be vulnerable. They stand so still; nothing could break them apart. This is not my family. The light fades out.