Itching and Twitching

We all have our good days and bad, and even though we might not like them, they unexplainably happen. Some would take it as a sign to regroup and focus on themselves for a bit, then take the reins back into their hands. While others would fight it right through to the end, tire themselves out, yet still be on their feet. It would be tiresome, yet they refuse to accept defeat and rise to their glory. It struck a nerve in me, as I have seen both and know they are among us. Heavens, I see it every day as my neighbour hurdles dozens of cattle by himself, and he is sixty-two. He does it with pride and strictness. I can feel it radiating from him from my bedroom window. While my other neighbours have three sons, and they can't understand the math to gather twenty sheep back into their yard space. I could see how unwilling they were to do the chore, much like the sheep as they roam all around refusing to go back to their home. I wonder on what day would they realise it takes one sheep to guide the rest?

Seeing the boys and their lack of motivation to do their jobs depressed me. I have been lacking motivation too. I have been enduring those days, and it has been like a train wreck meeting a hurricane. Everything was in turmoil and devastation. My feelings were all confused and all over the place. It has been a constant itch on my nerves, but I knew better than to prod it. Fate will only spite me more and prolong this further. I need to play my cards well if I want this phase of being stuck to vanish just as it came. Easier said than done. Just thinking about it drives me crazy. I noticed I was talking to myself as though I was another person having a conversation with me. How odd, I tell myself. This has been happening too frequently, and it needs to stop now.

There it goes again, and the frustration keeps driving my body from sleeping or resting or even relaxing. I began getting an itch that I cannot reach. It is just right at the back of the head that if you only touch a single hair; it diminishes as a dandelion held too roughly. The problem is, I know the solution, but have no way to enact it into action. My mantra doesn't even work anymore. It was a calm saying from my English class, but now I feel like it is the most useless thing and would not even look at it to say it anymore. It only makes me feel worse about myself. Something that was once strong in me, is now merely words on my wall. It made me unhappy.

My name is Lucy Wei Miles. My father gave me this name. Though when I look in the mirror, I saw someone I was sure wasn't me. I wanted to tell myself that it was only the nerves of going back to University and that I started something new. Sighed, knowing myself it was a helpless pep talk. I lacked motivation, and it gnawed at my self-confidence; not that it was high, anyway.

I dressed neatly in my uniform for college. I was going to start off the new semester after a long holiday at Ensure Passage University. My outfit is a frilled black skirt, a white inner vest, and, on the outside, a white-collared shirt that was one size bigger than my frame. I didn't mind the size. It helped to cover things that God blessed me with and boys would go crazy over. Breasts. Although I was only eighteen, they were already a size I despised, but others didn't seem to mind as they ogled at it shamelessly as I passed by. Sometimes men really need a good smacking. My subconscious would tell me assiduously.

My hands felt tired brushing my straight hair, shimmering black, but so long to comb and dry. Sighing once more than I fixed my hair appropriately, with tiny buns and braids at the loose ends. Convincing myself it was enough, I went down to greet my parents. For sure, I knew they had been up for quite a while.

I assume they heard my footsteps coming down the stairs as they both looked at me at the same time before I got to greet them. I was a little girl when I had this weird imagination that my parents were ninjas. Only to realise after they sat me down one night and explained my mother is a stay-at-home parent, taking care of the house all day and my father was a machine operator for a company outside the village. We were a very comfortable family and had all we needed and hardly worried about providing for one another. I never forgot it after that.

"Good morning, dear," said my mother. She looked as though she was hot, face flushed, almost blushing, and I looked at both of them weirdly. My father was on the other side of the counter, reading this morning's newspaper as always. Even more so, I became suspicious of the two rather quickly.

"Mom, Dad, good morning. Mom, are you feeling well? You look flushed." I said, taking a seat beside my father on the kitchen stool. Something must have happened, I convinced myself.

"Oh, it's nothing dear. I slipped into the garden this morning." She stopped for a moment to wipe her face with her hands elbow-deep in flour. Most likely, she is about to bake something. I was sure of it. "It was slippery on the grass, I guess." She continued after wiping her face.

"Oh Mom, you know you need to be careful. Dad, why did you not help her?" I said, eyes wide and shocked at what she said. She said it almost casually, as though it happens all the time. I knew too well that it wasn't the case.

"Of course. I helped her. It was difficult seeing that she slipped on me, though." He said, burying his face deeper into the newspaper he was reading. I assume some time or the other, he will realise that the paper is upside down, but I didn't mention it.

"Oh goodness, are you alright? What was the hurry, anyway?" I said coyly. Knowing for sure someone is about to be teased, I planned the right moment to launch my attack. I went around to her and inspected her arms and face, checking her hips. As I presume, she turned redder in the face.

"I can't say. It was just a normal routine, but I was going too fast." My mother was one to always have an answer for everything. She quickly rushed away from my hands and went back to kneading the dough. She was slick when she talked trying to take herself out of trouble and sticky situations. Her face was blank as a poker face, and her voice was normal, yet it has the right amount of curiosity in it.

This may sound weird, but I think of my parents as my rare experiments. They are not big on public displays of affection, and I would make it my mission to make them hug in public on any public holiday we have in the village. They are also people-pleasers too, so one can imagine how weird it would be to have someone hug and have at least three dozen people watch you as you do it. Eventually, they would turn so red in the face, mostly out of embarrassment. When they caught my eyes, they would both turn red with fury. I think that triggers their negative reaction to going places. Now they always find it horrifying when we receive an invitation to big festivals.

Right after I would pull my little stunt, I would need to make a quick escape or else I would get a beating out of my life. They would not actually hit me, but my mother would give me a good slipper on my wrist- if she caught me. My father would call me naughty and then he would confiscate my privilege to see the marketplace. He was nicer after a few hugs and a little sweet talk, but Mom was a tough nut to crack. If I bothered her too much, definitely my weekends would wave me goodbye and I would start chores by Friday afternoon. By now, after all the years of playing the prank on them, they knew about my hiding spot. It is the small corner of the cupboard next to the sink. The downside was, I got a lot bigger than I was and so I needed to find a new place to hide. It was feeling difficult since they were up to their game.

They are both filled with love, though. I have a wonderful relationship with them and for sure they know very well how much they mean to me. In all my years of being taught by them, they have traded values to better my life. They both got me very young and strongly advised that I wait to see if I want kids or not. I must fulfil all my dreams and aspirations and then think about kids. They always explain how hard it will be, and as they say, no piece of cake.

"Darling, will you take a piece of tart with you for class?" My mother was always big on making pastries and when I am told to take one to school, two more ends up in my backpack, wrapped tightly with tissue paper and in zip-lock bags.

"I was planning to take them when you finished, but seeing I get to pick, sure!" As excited as I was, I had to choose carefully. It was the battle of the best!

"Please take as much as you like. Take a few to share with the class," she said, waving me off with her hands from the laundry room.

"Mom, Dad is looking at me, clearly not agreeing with your idea. Also, I won't bear to give these away. Too good for the soul." Anyone who saw me hugging a pastry so gently might wonder if some screws got loose in my head.

"You naughty girl! Take some for the class. Your father's batch is already in the oven."

It was astonishing to find my father's mouth filled to the brim, two tarts in both hands and so satisfying to see when my mother told me what she did, his eyes widen as he turned away quickly to swallow the hefty mouthful, he happily devoured. Giving me a glare with squinted eyes, I take it as my time to leave.

Fixing my clothes once more after laughing so hard at my parents' faces and kissing my mother, I knew better than to leave the house looking rumpled. I took a little more time to check my hair, too. Almost forgetting my notebooks and reading material for the first day of classes, I was on red alert. How could I forget these? I scolded myself.

My dream was to become an artist if possible. I have been taking courses last year, and they looked promising. My course this year would be to study Art and Artistic Creations, English Language, Storytelling and not forgetting Business and Ethics. My father always said if you wish to have a career, and even though you won't be a boss, at least know what goes on in the business era, or else it will leave you behind. Or something like that, whatever it was, pieces stuck with me, maybe the important pieces.

Doing all and grabbing all that I could, a sense of relaxation came over me. I packed each book accordingly in my backpack, the papers to the other side, and took my time doing it. I grabbed the cooling container rather gently from the counter and bid farewell to my parents, who were well deep in a conversation. They both gave me a half-wave, and I closed the door. I thought they were shooing me out.

Standing outside to wait for the bus now made me feel nervous. A big honk arrived shortly, and I skipped onto the giant white bus, not looking at any face in particular. I sighed, only to see the bus was not moving. Another person came on, and from the looks of the black cloak, it didn't seem he go to this university. I didn't dare look up, either.

"Hi," said a deep voice.

"Hello," I greeted back, but cowardly did not look to see the face.

He took the seat beside me, and gladly I saw all the things outside the window to excite me rather than to look at the stranger beside me. How much goofy could I possibly get now?

The worse part of this was he shifted in his seat, and when I think it couldn't get worse, I felt his eyes on me.