Page 2 of Blue in the Deep Blue Sea

“Tell her Oliver needed me for a job or something,” he said, sitting on the wooden windowsill as he swung his legs over.

I walked over to him.

“One day he’ll be the death of you.”

“Don’t be dramatic,sorella2,“ he chuckled. “We’ll just have a beer or two on his yacht, and I should be back before you wake up.”

“Last time you said that, he kept you there until noon.” I raised an eyebrow, pointed a finger at his chest, then poked him twice.

He lowered his head, pretending he was about to bite my finger, but I pulled it away before he had the chance. He jumped down from the window, gave me a quick wave, and ran off towards town.

I lifted my hand, not to wave back but to pull the window shut. The cold breeze drifting inside sent a chill down my spine, and I was wearing nothing but the long white cotton dress I’d slept in.

A lot has changed since my father left. We lost the house and moved into a two-bedroom apartment on the edge of town. Icould still hear the ships’ sirens in the distance, but the scent of the sea had been replaced by the smell of restaurants and the cool breeze rolling down from the hills.

As my lips parted, the dry air stole what little moisture was left, making me crave for a glass of water. I got to my feet and quietly slipped towards the door, tiptoeing down the hallway and into the kitchen.

The TV was still on. The evening news had faded into grey noise spilling from the black screen, where large letters in the center read,“No Signal.”Nothing but the hiss of static filled the room before the smell of cigarettes seeped into the air—the smell I hated most. No matter how badly I wanted to get rid of it, it always seemed to cling to my hair, my skin, and my clothes. Every time I begged my mother to stop smoking, her answer was always the same.

“No.”

I walked over to the sink, picked up a glass, and filled it with water from the tap. Just as I lifted it to my mouth, I heard her whispering.

Lately, she has been doing it more often. She talked to herself a lot. Most of the time it was just rubbish. Sometimes it was memories. Tonight, though, as if she had sensed me, she started whispering about me.

I always brushed off her words, but tonight they hurt. Maybe I was more vulnerable than usual. Whatever the reason, they hurt more than they ever had before.

“And she…” she said. “I wish she’d never been born.” She took a drag of her cigarette. “She thinks she can escape, but I’ll never allow it. Oh no… no. I gave birth to her so she can take care of me when that other bastard leaves.”

She exhaled a stream of smoke, her hands shaking.

“And she thinks she’s better than me, but we’re both the same. She wants to go to college, but all she’ll ever do is clean toilets like me. It’s in our blood. The rotten blood of her bastard father.”

She pressed her lips together, then spat onto the floor.

A single tear fell down my cheek before I sneaked back toward my room. The little girl I once was thought she deserved it, but now I know she never did. My mother never taught me how to love myself. She never taught me how to heal from the wounds that others left behind.

Somewhere beneath all the cruel words she said to me, I know she didn’t know how. No one had taught her, either. She could only pass down what she had learned herself. And I was caught in a vicious cycle of generational abuse, wondering if I would ever be strong enough to break it.

The women in my family grew up learning how to pretend, while our minds, instead of holding happy memories, were filled with thoughts of never being enough—until we became bitter and cold, and eventually, alone.

I tried to teach myself how to smile, but instead I learned to hide every tear while my whole body screamed in silence.

I opened the door to my bedroom and quietly closed it behind me.

No tears can erase the history of cruel words I have heard over the years, and no matter how many times they are repeated, their meaning never fades. It never gets easier, and it never gets better. It’s the cross I bear—the trauma she left upon me, just as someone else left it upon her. A stain that can never be washed away. Even when it fades, it’s still there.

I moved to the window and looked down at the houses packed so closely together it felt as though everyone could hear each other breathe. Even though the walls were made of stone, they were thin enough for everyone to know everyone else’s business. The windows and doors were all wood, but every house waspainted a different color, as if each one carried its own stain. The house our apartment was in was painted blue.

Everything here was blue, and Ihatedthe color.

I leaned against the window frame and swung my legs through, reaching the wooden fence below. The house had only two floors, and our apartment was on the second, where the roof connected close enough for me to reach it from my bedroom window. I always climbed onto it when I wanted to escape the noise, and tonight was no different. While my brother was always running away, I was the one left behind to face the consequences.

My hands found the pale red roof tiles, and I pulled myself onto the rooftop. I sat down and looked towards the horizon. From here, I could still see the port, the boats and yachts that had come and gone over the years until they reached this one, 2003.

As my gaze drifted from the sky to the tiles beneath me, my fingers brushed over the carved letters G and O. My mind wandered back to the day I met him.

Oliver Sinclair. Nothing but a self-centered rich asshole who only cared about himself and no one else.