SÁBADO
10:43 PM

Dahlia Gray

It was dinner.

We, as humans, have the ability to blame our source of misery on any fundamental thing that comes upon us. Whether that be wrong timing, or the stars didn't align, or maybe something as mundane as a family dinner outing—we blame things because we don't want to take control.

I wouldn't say it was a toxic trait of ours, but I do conclude that we need to start picking up responsibility and taking our own fates into our own hands. We like to play with the idea of this and that, that this influences the outcome of that. We like to leave our realities up to the gods.

Sometimes, we don't need a god to dictate our living.

I lean against the glass window of my father's BMW, the hue of the frosty night bringing on a thin layer of fog. The strands of my brown hair pressed against the glass, leaving a small head-shaped indention that screams: yes! I was here!

Though, sometimes, I imagine it doesn't matter.

The front of the BMW occupies my parents; my loving father sitting behind the steering wheel as one hand maneuvers with steadiness and the other using dramatic hand gestures to get his point across. My mother takes the passenger seat, her black locks identical to mine pulled back into a slick ponytail, her fingers digging into the lining of the seatbelt.

They spoke in Spanish, their phrases fizzed out quickly before reigniting with another comeback or retort that blares against my eardrums. Thankfully, I had both of my earbuds in—but that doesn't completely stop the noise.

My father's Spanish was less native compared to my mother—who was born and raised in Venezuela—but that doesn't make him any less fluent. Despite being a white man, he's been speaking Spanish for a good thirty years of his life.

"¡Nosotros no nos vamos!" We are not leaving! My father screams in Spanish, his eyes dangerously glancing away from the road and towards my mother in a rage of fury. His words spit with agitation, and I could progressively see my mother burying herself into the leather seat, wishing she was smaller.

My mother opens her lips, "No es que quiera irme ahora mismo—" It's not that I want to leave right now— my mother would suggest nicely, but her words would fall flat once my father's impeding, loud, voice interrupts.

"¿Por qué querrías irte? ¡Nuestra vida está aquí! ¡Nuestra familia está aquí! ¡Mi trabajo está aqui!" Why would you want to leave for?! Our life is here! Our family is here! My work is here!

I wanted to bury myself under seventy different layers of blankets; wishing for anything to make their argument become a mere radio frequency to my ears. It was a ritual, trying to silence their feud before it became worse.

But it never became worse. My mother always just gives in.

Thankfully, I didn't have to witness another lecture that leaves my father's lips as he pulls up to our driveway, the lining of our two-story home coming back into view.

Our house has a large wraparound porch, with several white oak columns supporting the roof that sticks out from underneath several windows—my window being the culprit in view. Our home mainly takes after wood, but a small section of the garage was decorated in cobblestone, the same kind that follows the pathway and steps to our front porch.

I jump out of the BMW the moment the car registered in park. The soles of my shoes touch the smooth cement of the driveway before approaching up the steps, and I find myself in front of the ebonized wooden door.

I fish into my pockets, picking out my keys as I scramble to reach inside the house–far from my father, far from arguments that spit hurtful intentions and into a safe space.

The door swings open and I slip out of my sneakers, racing away from the foyer as I approach the stairs, the rotunda forming the dome of the steps. I race up the circular arena, reaching the top of the second floor in a matter of seconds.

My bedroom occupies the end of the circular hallway, set beside the loft and overlooking the front driveway. I head inside, the slamming of my door was heard a bit harsher than I intended, but the gesture becomes nothing more than an afterthought. The moment the door locks, my earbuds are pulled from my ears and settles onto my drawer.

I strip down the nice clothes my mother told me to dress in for tonight's outing, which I found extremely stupid. We may have gone to a nice restaurant, with waitresses that ask for your orders and offer wine tasting—but our antics were anything but nice.

Take the argument in the car for example.

I can hear my mother shouting my name from the first floor, but I chose to ignore her. I was stripping out of this dress—a black conservative dress that cuts at my knees—and nothing was going to stop me.

I change into some sweatpants and threw on a clean long-sleeve tee. I pull my hair back into a ponytail, taking a final look at my outfit in the mirror before finishing with a warm jacket.

I take the phone and wrap my earbuds around the case, stuffing it into the pocket of my jacket. I did a silent mental checklist as I ran my fingers over a pocket, tracing the lining of my inhaler on the left.

With that, I take off. I can hear the light layers of my father and mother's conversation from downstairs, knowing my father must've decided to preoccupy the family room that owns the largest flat-screen. It was across from the kitchen.

My steps heave with each step and I make the turn to the kitchen—and with the right presumptions—I found my mother standing in front of the island, her face pulled with a mix of sadness and frustration.She reads the instructions of the package—cornstarchs—but her brows crinkle as she reads. She doesn't know English, so she's probably trying to derive any Spanish words from it.

I take it from my mother without a word, reading the back of the box. I can feel my mother's gaze turned to meet mine, studying my change in attire and attitude. She knows I don't have hard feelings towards her.

"Mezcla agua fría y esto juntos, pero hágalo rápido." Mix cold water and this together, but do it fast. I declare, heading over to one of the cabinets as I take out a non-stick metal bowl. I turn on the cold tap, measuring it up to a two-cup fill.

I turn back to my mother, placing the bowl on the island as she continues to look at me with her big blue eyes. I knew she had a lot she wanted to say, but nothing pushes through her lips to explicitly tell me. I could tell, however, the basis of her lecture.

He's your father.

"Él está equivocado, mamá." He is wrong, mom. "Él no debería haberte gritado." He shouldn't have yelled at you.

I could see my mother shaking her head, my words not penetrating her walls strong enough for her to grasp the concept. She looks away from me, and I approach her, grabbing her elbow and stopping her from literally (and figuratively) leaving the conversation. "Sabes que tengo razón, mamá." You know I'm right.

She pushes me off, still refusing to meet my brown eyes. "Sabes cómo es tu padre, Dahlia." You know how your father is, Dahlia.

I frown, clenching my jaw. "Eso no significa que sea correcto." That does not mean it is correct.

My mother shakes her head once more, not allowing my words to stem into her system. She doesn't want to acknowledge it, but I know, deep down, she is as frustrated with it as I am. "Él es tu padre." He is your father.

I release an involuntary groan, and shake my head, knowing how futile my words are. I turn away from my mother, with furrowed brows and a frustrated expression, and heads towards the exit of the foyer—the door slightly cracked open.

I slip into my shoes, my mother becoming a mere background character, as I head out to the porch, seeing my father sitting on one of the seats with a cigarette between his teeth and his lighter in the other hand. He looks beyond the world: contented, oblivious.

I pull out my phone, unraveling the earbuds as I stuff it into my ears, blocking out everything. I step forward, allowing my father to notice my presence, before I press play.

"Where are you going, Dahlia?" He asks, to which I pretend I don't hear.

I quicken my stride, moving away from our house—picture-perfect and beautiful in every physical way—and towards the other direction, where the roads begin to fill the streets and the houses become more run-down and far from the ones in a movie, the emptiness of the area allowing me to finally breath.

There's one place I love more than the comforts of my bedroom, and that's my bench.

It's stupid, having a location outside of home to be your safety, but it's something I've grown to love. It's a place where all judgment is alleviated and my problems cease to exist, even for a short moment.

My heart pumping against my chest, and I inhale a sharp breath with each step. I remind myself I'm made of anatomy—from blood vessels, veins, organs and a heart. I can feel.

The urge to reach up and experiment with my proclamation was there, but it was diminished the moment I step into view of the park, my favorite park bench coming into view.

Instead of predicting a quiet, silent Saturday night with no one occupying such space—I'm surprised with a boy, possibly around my age, leaning against the worn-down wooden planks.

My brows furrow, approaching him as I see a soft orange glow illuminate near his lips. His eyes staring straight ahead, oblivious to me and everyone surrounding the world.

He was smoking a cigarette.

The small waft of smell comes forward towards me, and I almost cough. I stiffen at the need to cough, the smell of the horrendous nicotine burning my nostrils.

But, you want to know what's the worst part?

I can decipher the brand of that cigarette by a mere waft of smell.

It was Marlboro. The same kind my father uses.

"Hey," I said softly, waving a hand out for him to see. I was about ten feet away from him; enough distance between us for it to be safe, but close enough for him to see me within peripheral vision.

He doesn't respond.

I inhale sharply, trying to build up my confidence and ask him to nicely find another bench. It sounds snobbish, and stuck-up but I didn't care. If I ever find a problem, if I'm ever facing a hard day, I would always come to this bench and this bench alone.

It was comforting.

Knowing while the world spins, and the dynamics of life evolving, one place could stay the same.

"Hey," I said, a puff of white air escaping my lips. It was from the cold weather. "I know you don't know this, but um, this is my bench."

He doesn't look at me.

He doesn't even acknowledge there's something beside him.

"Hey," I said, a little stronger this time. A small lingering of fury brews in my chest, and I try to contaminate that small section of myself. If not for the smoking, it's for the indirect declaration. I hate to be ignored. "Could you please find another bench? I always come to this one."

He doesn't say anything, and by this time, the fume of the cigarette lingers around the bench and around us. I could smell the strong scent of Marlboro coming my way, and the need to cough could no longer be contained.

I pull up the collar of my shirt, coughing quietly into the fresh fabrics as I come to the conclusion that I won't be able to take that seat today. It hurts me, more than I could possibly imagine a bench could do, but my health is valued more than a small piece of comfort.

I turn away, heading to another bench that sits a good distance away from the guy.

The music in my ears plays some soft vocals, but my focus has long lost its intention on calming me, of feeding myself music that could conciliate my soul.

Instead, it was on him.

This random guy I know nothing about, who smokes cigarettes that mimics the brand my father uses and who would ignore me, despite my presence being just ten feet away from his.

I don't know why it hurts—or better yet, why it bothered so much. I just knew it did, and the lingering fury, frustration and anger rooted in my stomach paralleled my emotions I held for my own father.

It's disgusting, but I can't get it to go away.

Only this.

With one last look at the boy who took my bench, I finally noticed the one thing he refused to give to me.

He spared me a glance.

━━━━━

AVA'S NOTES

thank you to everyone who decided to pick up this story; if you're coming here from my other novels, this is a completely different style i'm trying. it'll be new and laced with more philosophies. my goal is to find a writing style that suits me.

last but not least, this will be something different. i will be trying to write from a dual point of view: from dahlia to harlow.

thanks again for checking this out!!

please vote and comment!