I tried to zone out into the cool darkness of my bedroom, but nothing helped keep out the noises I heard downstairs. I tried to cover my face and ears with one of my barely visible white pillows, but nothing helped. I could still hear the echoes from the screaming downstairs, making its way through the holes and crevices in our house’s walls.
“I can’t believe you Jonathan! We’re barely able to pay the mortgage and the taxes, and you go out and buy a motorcycle?”
“I needed some cheering up Winona! You know I’ve always wanted a bike, and when Richard down the block was selling his Harley, I made an offer. An hour later, it was mine.”
“This bike is only gonna make the bills worse! We barely have enough money to buy groceries, even with welfare! Do you want us to have to go to a soup kitchen for all our meals?”
“I’ll work some extra shifts at the garage! It’s simple….”
“Crap! You paid for this bike with the money from our savings fund! What if we have to declare bankruptcy? Huh? What are you gonna do now?”
“You’re a fricken crazy woman Winona Jean! I told you, I’ll work extra hours at the garage!”
The yells, screams, and hisses continued to drone through the cracks between the two floors, making it almost impossible to concentrate at all without hearing the fight. I rolled over and stared at my plain dresser, my shirts neatly folded in one drawer, my jeans and shorts in another. I had found a blue framed mirror at the Salvation Army a year ago and tried to nail it to the wall, but it hung at an angle, making the mirror look incredibly lopsided. The bedposts on my bed were old, the edges wearing away with the years. My bed sheets were dirty too, but I couldn’t wash them now, we didn’t have enough money to go to the Laundromat.
I stared around my room and realized that we hadn’t just started being poor, we had always been poor. I realized it was a bit like my parents fighting, they hadn’t just started, they had always fought.
I tried to close my eyes as the darkness blanketed my senses, but sleep never came to me. Every word my parents said, every sound flooded my distant consciousness. I realized that everything they said, it hurt me. Their words hurt like nails against my skin, blood pouring out of my veins.
I opened my eyes again and gazed at the white ceiling, feeling wet tears flood my eyes. I remember an old saying my teachers used to say when I was in elementary school.
“Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words may never hurt you.”
I heard loud clanging sounds from downstairs and realized what was happening now.
They had started throwing pots and pans like they usually did when an argument went past half an hour. I could hear what was left of my grandmother’s old china breaking against the kitchen wall.
The saying pounded through my head again, as it repeated over and over in my mind.
"Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words may never hurt you.”
"Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words may never hurt you.”
I analyzed the sentence and felt the tears building up in my eyes slowly fall down my cheeks. I knew that whoever came up with that saying was wrong. Dead wrong. If that person had been hearing what I was hearing then, they would’ve regretted what they’d said.
Words were all I could hear. Words about how our family was so poor. How our family had so many problems. Our family was slowly tearing itself apart, because of words.
Sticks and stones may hurt you, I thought, but words hurt you so much more.
