Pitter-Patter

My Hate List:

- My ugliest feet

- Dad

- the sound of the rain

- running

- climbing

- shout (to and to receive one)

- to be left alone

- reading (Why should I? I’m too lazy to just sit and make my mind do the dancing)

- Quiet men in glasses; exception: geeks

There is one thing that makes me happy: dancing.

I always picked Mom over Dad. Who would pick Dad? He makes everything a tad more difficult than it already is. He makes me do things I don’t need to do, I don’t understand why I should.

He makes me clean the house even when Mom’s done with it. Once, when I asked why I should, he said, “Because I told you to.” God, I hate him.

He makes me join club groups about topics I don’t even care about to meet people I don’t like. I can’t make a conversation that connects. How could I enjoy any of it?

Most of it is to teach kids how to make stuff available in the store.

- How to make soap, candles, etc.

- DIY 101

and some are for coping skills, which doesn’t make sense;

- What to do when your parents shout at you?

- How to kill a ghost?

- Into the mind of a criminal,

like, what the hell? I’m wasting my time.

I used to think he was a sadist or just someone who enjoys torturing me. He made me write ten things I hate the most to create ways for him to make me do all of them.

I tried to be a good daughter as long as I could, but there are times when I just can’t. We all have our breaking points, even the most patient ones. It’s them we have to watch for.

I cried each time I reached a limit. Yes, in front of Dad, I threw tantrums, lashed out, and broke things just to breathe—breathe. And do you know what he does each time? He laughed at me every fcking time, saying the same thing; You know nothing but drama.

I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

But what I hate the most is my ugly feet. It’s all covered with scars. Next to Dad, I hate the rain, the sound of it even more. This hate started when I finally talked back, cursed him for what he made me do, and threw a glass on the floor, which made my first scar.

“Fck you! I’m out of this! I’m not doing any of this anymore!” I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. I remember how my body shook as I said the words.

“No, you can’t. You have to do what I tell you to do until you no longer need me to live. That’s as long as you are with me, kid,” he said it like he always did. Firm, no sign of remorse, calm, cold — without any care, he doesn’t care.

So I hate PitPat. It signals doom. I have to run outside the house barefoot and stay in it until it stops. Why, you ask? I don’t know, ask Dad.

“What the hell am I gonna do in there?” You don’t have any idea how crazy Dad is.

“You love dancing, right? Dance, my love. Dance all you want.” Then again, he laughed.

It’s been four years since I stopped running outside when Pitpat comes. Four years of freedom from nonsense — free. Yet here I am, crying because I am.

“He loves you, you know that, right?”

“Mom…” I can’t, there are no words, just.

“We love you. But we love you differently. I gave you ease. I took care of you and made sure you were comfortable and happy. But your dad wants you to be strong. It’s not easy to be hard. It’s heavy to have people get mad at you, more so if it is your own. We’ll be okay, someday. I’ll always be here, we’ll go through this together. Slowly, okay?”

I miss Dad. The rain took him from me.

Cars, windows, streets, and the rain — not a good mix.

I feel it somehow, why he was the way he was.

to run barefoot

to stay somewhere I don’t like

to do something I don’t want

to understand someone I hate

to stay even if I don’t have to

to know how my anger can hurt me

to do something even if I don’t need to

to dance and to love, even if it’s painful

And the hardest part of all?

…is to live without him.

I can dance with the rain, knowing that he is one with it.

My updated hate list:

- Quiet men in glasses; exception: geeks