I hate that bitch. I cannot believe I let her get to me. Again. Tears are streaming down my face, and I relive every one of those million other moments when I have felt as inadequate as right now. They all pass me by in a rush, just like I imagine a person would see their life flash before their eyes when standing before their last moment in this existence. Like that person would hopefully see the best of the best (there is probably not time for more than that) of what life had to offer them,

I now see all of the times I have lost myself to the tears, but more importantly; to the intense and unforgiving sensation of not being good enough. Every tear rasps my cheek like a machete cutting through jungle trees, and when they hit my chest they hit it with the coldest and most unpleasant drops of ice. A tear, which was warm and salty to the taste less than a foot higher up, miraculously cools to sub-zero degrees and crashes down on a pumping chest.

I see the skin of a young person on that chest. It has some red dots on it, but is otherwise free from any wrinkled skin or consequence of other external damage. It is just young. Too damn young for that many tears. It acts like a sponge to all the misery that falls upon it. Haven’t you ever wondered about that? When you cry, the tears will sooner or later hit something below your chin, and unless you are lying back – that something will most likely be your chest. They never travel further. I wonder how many salty, ice-cold drops of ice my poor chest has soaked up over the years. I’m not talking just triple digits, that’s for sure.

She had called my father. Of course she had, didn’t she always? Complaining, whining, whatever she felt like bestowing on him that day. Maybe it was just self-righteousness today. Maybe. It was either that alone, or something caused by something horrid – usually something one of us had done. I must admit I thought more of the latter than the first. Maybe that was due to the obscenely bigger number of complaints about us than there were just calls to ensure that everyone knew how great she was. You see, on a good day, that would be it, and we would be very happy with the solitude of that statement. It was when the love of herself came accompanied by the love of putting everyone else down that we cringed. Or let me rephrase – I cringed. The fear was very much attached to the combination. And I was the only one who crawled up into my own little self, becoming smaller and smaller by the second during this ranting.

My dad knew better. Or, that would again be a false definition. He had to, absolutely had to know better. It was a consequence of his life, his being here today, that he had learned how to deal and I hadn’t. He had made his raft several years ago, and on that he could stay afloat. He had a life vest, the logs were tied tight together with extremely strong strings of persistence, and he held on tight too. And so he stayed afloat. Most of the time. He told me of times when he couldn’t maintain his position as boat boy, and had jumped to land and nearly strangled her.

But those stories weren’t suitable for me. Not because I was too young, no, but because I might sense the urge to attempt the same thing – maybe too soon. Possibly before I was ready. I am sure that’s what dad thought. That he should try, that it was his duty as boat boy, to keep me safe at sea by him until I was fully equipped to sail my own raft. Ironic really, that he spent time and effort to keep me off her land, when all I ever wanted was something too immense to even be likened by anything. I never wanted a raft. I never wanted to jump to land. What I wanted was my own damn island. And neither of them could give me that.

So I kept cringing when she called. Stepping away from the phone. Far, far away from the phone. I could nearly always tell when she was the one on the other end, even before anybody picked it up. The phone rattled with the most impatient and arrogant ring when she really wanted our attention. Even the phone changed around her, but it never came to mind to think that it was strange. I never knew of people who kept their true faces on in her presence, so why should the mechanics? Metal changes in the presence of magnets, butter is never the same when sun hits it through the kitchen window, and we all know what happens when glass meets hard ground at rapid speed.

They all change their faces almost to the undistinguishable. And I guess this was how people, all people acted around her. Some were quickly magnetized, sucking her every word into their minds like salt sucking up whine on a stained tablecloth. I would watch them scared, wanting to run up to them screaming not to take anything she said for true. The only problem was that when I had mastered the guts just to think the thought, they would be mesmerized already. It never failed. Any hypothetical courage was wasted thought. And then you had the second group, those who melted just sitting next to her at a dining. These people were different from the admirers; because they were… well they were more like me. They were cowardly subtle souls without a word to be spoken. And they liked it better that way than any other way. It was safe, like a routine, to know for sure what she would do, what she would say.

Even though the words coming out of her mouth were hating, hurtful, even mindblowingly candid at times (and not in the good way), it seemed easier to melt down into a chair or a sofa just acting along in mime, than to utter any word of either criticism or astonishment. Oh, the melters. I felt some type of bizarre camaraderie with them. The type I imagine you would feel with college roommates, or sorority members, fellow fat camp kids or chess club buddies. We didn’t share any tighter bonds than those connected by what felt important at the time, which in the melter club was living through the moment breathing the same air as her, but those bonds kept us tight enough. We didn’t necessarily get together outside of these occasions, but knowing that we had a fellow interest whilst still in them gave us a sense of temporary comfort. We knew the thoughts and feelings of the others, and with one look only – I could gaze across the room to her sofa, and recognize a melter in an instant. I bet I could even do it blind if I had to.

And there was of course the third group, the crackers. Now this may seem like it implies something else than what is the fact, and I know this. I have had many a laugh over that myself when I have pondered this strange feudal system that has come to define her circle of acquaintances. No, the crackers are not people forced to rely on narcotic substances of any kind to keep standing around her, but rather people who crack like fine champagne glasses hitting marble floor when shoved into her company. And that would be the group where you would most likely find yours truly.

As much as I see myself as a melter, I can fully define myself as a cracker. And how are these two different when carried out to their full role? Well, a melter has, may it be cowardly and subtle and possibly not optimal, found a way to deal. A cracker really hasn’t. And if you could have witnessed one of our get togethers where she (as always) had placed herself in the center of not only attention but of every move and word, you would know what I mean. Oh, I was a cracker, a cracker filled with amazement for the melters, sympathizing with them, empathizing with them and feeling comforted by them. But ultimately, when all is said and done; my reaction pattern was that of a cracker. I had not yet learned how to deal. And that was why the tears were extra sharp today. They didn’t feel extra sharp – they were. Every single one hitting my cold chest, which was pumping like a crazy frog.