Floors

I remember when we moved into the house. It was clean and the wood floors were dark and shiny. The first thing my dad said was, “You guys are going to be cleaning these floors every day so get ready.” I knew it was going to be like this because when we moved from Oklahoma the entire drive was about “responsibility” and “taking initiative.” I was too excited about getting a new room that I didn’t even care about the floors.
Fast forward to five years later. The wood floors are the least of my worries. I didn’t care about my dad yelling about the floors any more. I didn’t care about anything actually. I was withdrawn and would spend my time after school laying on my floor listening to Mariah Carey and staring out the window. “Dream.” The title of all of Mariah Carey’s songs seemed to be about dreaming. I wanted so badly to be in a different place.
Every time my dad would hit me Mariah Carey’s song would play in my head. The worst part was that I knew my life wasn’t a dream. His pounds weren’t even sounds, they were blank spots in my mind. As soon as hit fist would make contact, for those few seconds, my brain was aloud to go blank. In the beginning I would never get angry. I deserved it. I hadn’t turned the towels the right way in the closet. I didn’t cover my sister up the right way. I did forget to turn off the light in the closet. The tissue on the floor wasn’t mine, but I was supposed to clean up the downstairs bathroom.
For ten years I had those moments, small blank spots in my brain. Eventually so many blank spots turned into one extreme memory. I don’t talk much about myself because there’s so much darkness in my brain. I don’t let people get too close because I have too much anger ready to explode. I don’t have a family because they were replaced with mistakes and “I should have done better”s. Today carpeted floors are the first warm, lighted spot in my heart.