Alex's monologue (1)

In the serene ambiance of the evening, bathed in the gentle glow of the living room, I found myself meandering through the labyrinthine passages of my personal history. Life, as I perceive it, has woven a tapestry intricate with shadows and light, each strand recounting tales of hardship and triumph.

March 13th, 1993 – a Friday. They called it an unlucky day, and perhaps for me, it bore the weight of that superstition. Born into a home where the union of my parents was devoid of love, their constant strife formed the backdrop of my early years. Laughter was a rarity, drowned out by the cacophony of their discord.

At the tender age of seven, my mother vanished from our lives. The void left in her wake was filled with my father's increasing reliance on alcohol, accompanied by a surge in his violent tendencies towards me. Endurance became my armor, and silent pleas went unanswered, the tears unable to find release.

A turning point arrived when my father introduced another woman into our tumultuous home. She was not my mother, nor did she extend any warmth toward me. The subsequent day ushered in the arrival of an elderly woman, a stranger to me until then.

This woman, it turned out, was the mother of my father. With an air of authority, she declared herself my grandmother and swiftly took charge of my life. My father, unceremoniously, deposited me at her doorstep, accompanied only by my modest belongings and a handful of clothes.

"Look, Alex," she began, "from today onward, I will care for you. I won't abandon you like your parents." As her words hung in the air, tears welled up in my eyes, and I found solace in the embrace of a woman who pledged to be the family I never had.

Enrolling in the local school nearby wasn't an easy choice. Our financial constraints dictated the options available to me, and the best schools were beyond our means. As I took my place in the classroom, my reserved nature and reluctance to engage with others set me apart. The isolation quickly transformed into a label – I became the class oddball.

The initial mocking soon escalated into relentless bullying. Familiar with the feeling from the days of my father's abuse, I chose silence as my defense. The torment continued, with teachers turning a blind eye, and my classmates viewing me as an easy target.

I bore the weight of this silent suffering, shielding my grandmother from the truth. Revealing the extent of the bullying would prompt her to transfer me to a better school, but that would demand more from her already burdened shoulders. I couldn't bear to see her suffer further. So, I remained silent, my wounds hidden beneath layers of unspoken pain.

At the age of 14, during a summer vacation filled with the usual routine of studying for better results, an unexpected event unfolded. The familiar sound of my father's car engine brought confusion and anticipation. Could he have changed? Was he here to take me back?

To my surprise, a six-year-old girl entered the house alongside my father. The echoes of her laughter and giggles reached my room, prompting me to remain hidden. Hours later, my father left, and I ventured downstairs to unravel the mystery. That's when I laid eyes on her for the first time – a cute little girl, resembling me in some ways, yet distinctly different, especially in her eyes.

"Alex, meet your little sister Issable. She'll be staying with us for the vacation," my grandmother introduced her.

"Are you my brother?" Issable approached me, her eyes scanning mine. "I'm Issy! Let's play a game, brother!" she said with a warm smile, breaking the unexpected tension in the air.

Throughout the summer she spent time with me, playing with me and eating with me. I found a warm smile from her. I connected to someone who is not my grandmother. It's like the first time I smiled along with her.

As the summer vacation neared its end, my father's car once again arrived, casting a shadow over the tranquility of our home. I remained in my room, sensing an impending storm. Soon, shouts and angry voices pierced the silence, and my father stormed into my room with a face twisted in rage. Without knowing what transgression I had committed, the beatings began. I endured the physical pain once again, refusing to let a cry escape.

Following the violent episode, my father snatched Issable away, leaving me alone with the aftermath. Confused and battered, I sought answers from my grandmother. "What did I do wrong?" I asked. She revealed that Issable had shared her unsettling experiences, repeatedly mentioning my name. In my father's distorted perception, I was accused of stealing her away from him. From that day forward, I chose silence whenever Issable returned, avoiding any interaction that could spark my father's wrath.

I returned to the local high school, familiar with the routine of low-level education and the persistent bullying. Oddly enough, their taunts became background noise; their attempts to provoke me seemed futile. I trudged through high school, focused on my studies, and excelled enough to secure a seat in a good college in the city, accompanied by a scholarship—a testament to my hard work.

However, the news of my success was bittersweet. When I longed to share it with my grandmother, I discovered she had passed away. My father, absent from my life for so long, appeared for the final rituals. In the wake of her death, I inherited her house and a substantial bank balance she had saved for me. Yet, I couldn't muster tears for her; grief seemed elusive.

I left our home, locking it away along with my memories. The city and college became my new reality, accompanied only by part-time work. The loneliness set in, and I grappled with suicidal thoughts, each attempt unsuccessful.

Amidst a city grappling with a flu outbreak, I took the metro to my room, only to find an unexpected letter in my bag. Its near-perfect handwriting suggested a woman's touch, and as I unfolded it, a message unfolded:

"Hey,

I hope this letter reaches you when you need it most. Life can be tough, and I've heard you've been through a lot, losing someone dear and facing challenges that seem insurmountable.

I'm not here to offer cliché motivation. I just want to remind you that even in the darkest times, there's the possibility of finding new connections and reasons to keep going. This might not make sense now, but maybe one day it will.

Read this letter whenever you feel the weight of the world, and when you reach a point where things start looking up, tear it up as a symbol of resilience and hope.

Take care."

The words resonated, prompting a realization that even though I felt alone now, there was hope for connection and companionship in the future—someone to laugh with, share with, love, and adore.