Words Never Spoken

This morning, I heard big, fat snowflakes tapping the window panes, thrashing around like headless chickens. And now, as I am trudging through the snow, my bare feet are getting used to being the prey of those ostensibly benign flakes. Walking in the snow in sandals is not a good idea, but I am not doing this by choice.

I don’t care about the cold or the fact that my feet are benumbed, because today is the day that I’m going home. I am a few hours away from stepping into my cosy living room and sitting at a big wooden table with my dad’s glasses on it.

I have just left rehab, the place where you are supposed to kick one of the deadliest habits you may have. I managed to sneak out after a few days of planning.

I am wondering if my parents will be happy when they see me. They are the ones who turned me in. I think they will say that they did it out of the kindness of their hearts. I can’t blame them. They were scared that I might do something that would put me behind bars for the rest of my life. They had to choose between me being sent to rehab and accepting the fact that they’d never see me again.

I think my parents will be really happy to see me. But the joy they feel may be replaced with the realization that this happiness will be cut short sooner or later.

I don’t know why I am walking so slowly. Passers-by must think I am crazy. I tried to steal one of the nurse’s shoes, but they were high heels, so I did what I can do best – I trusted my sixth sense, which told me that everything would be all right.

The reason that I am walking slowly is probably that I am uncertain. It might be better for me to go back. I can make something up to convince the rehab staff of my good intentions. I am quite good at thinking up excuses. I already have one up my sleeve for my parents.

The road is very slick. The hail is making it even more difficult for me to maintain balance. It’s not like I will get injured if I fall down, it’s just that I don’t want to be laughed at any more. I don’t want to get any more fingers pointed at me.

And in my attempt to be normal once again, I found myself walking in the snow in sandals and my pyjamas. I am normal. Why couldn’t this be normal? If I think this is normal, then there might be someone else who thinks the same way. Because I believe it’s not about what the masses think of as normal, it’s all about what makes me feel special and happy. That’s what I call normal.

I passed the alley leading directly to my house. I just need more time to weigh up some things.

And this is the most difficult situation one could ever be in: asking for a little more time to wallow in self-pity.

Not being able to take any more self-flagellation, I changed my mind and turned into the alley.

My fingers were so numb that I couldn’t open the gate. I can tell no one has opened it for a long time. But it makes me happy to see the light coming from the living room window.

My heart is about to jump out of my chest. Some beats are louder than others; some can hardly be heard.

Opening the gate, I couldn’t resist shouting to my parents from a distance.

“Mom, dad, I am home.”

I saw my dad peeking from behind the curtain and my mom looking hurriedly for her hat.

It broke my heart to see her struggling to walk even with a cane.

They hugged me. I had their tears mingled with mine running down my face.

They both started praying aloud.

The tone of their prayers froze my blood.

The warmth of the room shook my veins.

My dad rushed to the other room to get the washing-up bowl. He filled it with hot water for me to warm my feet.

As they were crying, I hung my head in shame like a kid who has just been taught his lesson.

They wouldn’t be able to tell me exactly why they were crying.

They didn’t ask for any explanation from me either.

No one could interrupt this powerful, nameless bonding, which filled the room with the echoes of my parents sobbing.

We were conversing with words that had never been spoken.