By: Pihu J.
When can I live?
When you’re born, you’re already clothed. Clothed in the expectations of your parents, of your society, determined by your race and gender. You’ve already been set on a predestined path, one that will take nothing short of a miracle to break free from.
When can I live?
As a child, you could only play with certain toys. No trucks, cars, or shovels for you. What would you do with a sandbox, when you could play pretend in cute pink clothing? No rough games for you, only gentle and lady-like activities. You can do whatever you want when you’re older anyways…
When can I live?
You start to hate yourself. Your hair, your face, the way your legs slope, the small roll of fat on your stomach. All of it. I mean, why wouldn’t you? No one ever told you otherwise. Your mother snickered when you wore makeup, and your father berated you for focusing on anything but your studies. So, you did everything your parents wanted: you stayed at home, you studied. You didn’t go out… who would you go with anyways?
You were lonely, but the remedy to your loneliness was too far away. You stopped smiling. No one even noticed that. You hardly ever spoke, lost interest in school but worked in an almost robot-like state.
It’s okay, only a few more years and then I’ll be free. I’ll just make them happy now, so that I can finally be happy later. But, really:
When can I live?
The rest of your life was a blur. A meaningless university degree, a marriage somewhere in between, continuing to be berated, as if you hadn’t left your parent’s house in the first place. Children never happened. You worked a nine to five office job, waiting for a chance to escape. It’s okay, you thought, I know I’ll be free soon and then I’ll live my own life.
When can I live?
You stare up at the white ceiling of the hospital, wishing it all to be over. In the end, the only person you could blame was yourself. Anything that happened to you, it was your fault. Others perpetrated it, but you were the one who allowed the mistreatment to go on, allowed people to write the beat you marched through life to.
If only you had rebelled. If only you realized the flame you had before it came close to extinction. If only you hadn’t rendered yourself powerless through submission to others.
If only…
If only you had had more time…
A feeling of relief washes over you. At least now you won’t have to make any more choices. You wish you could have done something, but you can’t. Ironically, it is the last decision of your life that you allow yourself to deviate from the expectations of the world.
You allow yourself to smile, truly smile, for the first time in years. You laugh out loud at nothing in particular, scream and shout, run through the halls of the hospital crying and singing at the same time.
You end up outside the children’s ward, and peek inside to see a beautiful blond boy sitting and playing passively with a truck. You follow his gaze to see a Barbie doll, gleaming in the bright hospital light as if inviting the whole world to come and play with it. You walk into the ward, and hand the boy the doll. He refuses it twice, but takes it tenderly the third time.
Just before they come to escort you out, you whisper softly to him: “Live for me. Live because I couldn’t. Do what you want, please?” As you walk out, you look back. It’s the last thing you’ll ever see: the flame in his eyes, dancing.
A final thought flits through your mind, touching you lightly as you embrace the warm darkness:
I lived…