Young Writers Society

'God, this is pathetic.' Was the thought that ran through my head as I reached for the tissues, I looked across the table at my host parent. Their faces are solemn as they nod, and we leave the table soon with me promising I'll give a better answer to 'how was your day at school' and tell them to take out that extra loaf of bread.

We never did afterall, and I realised the best answer I could give to 'how was your day at school' today was 'it was good'.

And I had always dreamt that one day my own parents would ask me that very thing.

I never saw my parents as my parents, the thought of them having sex was just an impossible one. Best not to think about all those times they did it to give birth to my two sisters, they've never hugged, kissed or showed any sign of intimacy in front of us.

Maybe it explains their short courtship, who knows. Neither of them had been much of a romantic.

Maybe that also explains the absence of them during my childhood, don't get me wrong my childhood was as good as a child could ask for. I had designer brand clothing from head to toe, I lived in a five-storeyhouse with a maid and a cleaner. There was a massive koi pond where I fantasied about jumping in but never did. My bed was big enough for me to perform two successive somersaults without touching the borders.

I was a princess and the world was at my fingertips.

But the castle that I lived in sung an empty and hollow song for the absence of its king and queen.

I had a lot of time to myself, and surprisingly I did not mind it at all. It was only in retrospect that I discovered maybe that was why my writing is so disjointed and loose. I've never been one to express my thoughts to someone else, the idea just seemed absurd. So I pieced the world together in my own, fragmented ways. And it was a less-than-perfect world, but at least it made sense.

Back then anyway.

-

Mum and Dad came from two different rungs on the social ladder. When Mum lived off rationing tickets during the 80s during the economic reform, Dad raced through the streets with the newest brand of motorcycle.

Dad slept though basically most of his high school life until 3 months before the exams, and still achieved a final mark that was just twenty or so marks off my mother's.

My mother was the youngest out of three sisters.

My dad was the eldest of two, and the unfavourited one out of the duo.

Even emotionally, they are completely different to each other. My dad is like a cup always simmering over, whereas my mother was more like a bottle that rarely boils over. I remember in those first years when we moved to Australia, his mood was less predictable than the weather outside (which was pretty unpredictable considering it was Melbourne. You could have sunshine in the morning and rain in the afternoon all on the same day.)

Fights were constant, I have forgotten their exact content because they were always fought over some trivial matter that escalated into my mother crying and my father threatening for divorce. One time, my mother stormed out of the house carrying my then 5 month old sister and 11 year old me. It was near dusk, pastel lines sketched their way across the horizon. I trailed beside her uncertainly, what are we going to do now?

We walked for a long time, we walked for a lot during those times. In the park, to the supermarket, to the bus stop. Because back then, it was easier to take public transport than to use the car.

"Do you hate your father?" She stopped and asked me, her voice was calm, calm and weary.

"Yes." I bit on the word, "I wish he'd just disappear." Half out of hoping that the words would comfort her, and half out of sincerity because I could not understand a father that mocked and hit me for no good reason.

She frowned and shook her head, "you don't mean that. Don't ever say that again. You just go back, he'll forgive you. He always does."

I shook my head silently and we walked on, a long and short shadow on a concrete path. And it's always been like this, my mother's thoughts were as opaque as her shadow, even the tears she shed is occasional. Do my parents love each other? I must have asked myself that question a lot of times during those years, perhaps they do in their own way. A way that could not be comprehended by a 11 year old.

That night we ate a Hungry Jack's and I was happy, because we got to eat at Hungry Jack's but since I felt like I wasn't meant to be happy. I did not show that happiness, after we finished we made our way back home. I fantasied about what would happen if we ran off, just the three of us to some far away place in the world. Seeking a new home.

We are kites that have been torn from its holder, and to this day, we still float without knowing a destination.