My father passed away when I was ten years old. I had gone into absolute hysteria, alongside my mother. Thankfully, she recovered quick enough. I can’t say the same for myself. I developed an unusual stutter a few months after his death. One therapist remarked that it was because I had gone into shock and could not comprehend the unfortunate situation I had been place into. For I could never bare to part with the only person who could understand me, who could see me. Another claimed that I was stricken with grief, and turned to an unhealthy method of denial. For I refused to believe that I had forever lost the only person who could love me, who could want me. Another believed I was angry, and filled with unnecessary hatred. For I would never accept that the only person who loved me and who I loved back with all of my goddamn heart, was gone. Clinic after clinic, my family soon gave up. No one could ever cure me except myself, they all said. My mother obviously disregarded their words, demanding some sort of medicine or herbal tea to rid me of my illness. Nothing ever worked.
My mother sent me to the market when I was sixteen. She said I needed to learn how to face the real world, only then people would become accepting of my sickness. I knew she just made me go because my sister was busy. I didn’t say anything though, I was glad to have a task besides being the embarrassment of my family. When I arrived, strawberries and apricots lined the stalls of the market, tempting to divert me from my original mission. After a while of roaming around in fascination, I realized I had no idea where half of the items on my list even were. I reluctantly approached a young boy around my age. He wasn’t necessarily good looking, but I was intrigued by the unusual, and somehow fitting, features of his face. He had big, almond eyes and full brows that furrowed ever so slightly as if he was skeptical of everything the world had to offer. Pale, scattered freckles spotted his nose and cheeks, so small I wouldn’t have seen them from afar. I bit my tongue till I felt my stutter had disappeared before I spoke coolly. Clearly, the devils were not on my side. He laughed at my request, asking if I even knew how to spell. Of course, I knew how to spell. H-o-n-e-y. There’s only one h, not three. I knew. I burned bright red and began to pick at the dirt embedded in my fingernails. I quickly turned away, understanding that it was better to continue my quest alone. My mother was wrong. No one in the world would ever understand me. Not like my father did.
When I became nineteen, I went as far away as possible from my house, determined to find a home. My stutter never went away though. I reassured my mother I could survive on my own. I felt tense as I spoke those words, not sure if I even believed them myself. However, college was an otherworldly experience. Everyone was so worried about fixing their own problems, no one bothered to recognize my incorrigible habit. Although, I didn’t have any friends. I guess people still had the time to silently judge others. One day, I sat myself along the moss-covered park bench. It was going to rain. I could feel it. I didn’t really care though. Not too far from me, a familiar-looking boy caressed his girlfriend’s forehead and titled his head lovingly while listening to her speak. If I didn’t already feel like I was intruding, he suddenly jerked down on one knee and pulled out a diamond ring. I was close enough to hear the girl gasp, but not close enough to see the tears. I knew they were there though. I was about to leave before I got caught, but I heard the boy begin to speak. He asked for her hand in marriage. With way too many m’s, six to be exact. He chuckled and told her that he was just nervous. Nervous that she wouldn’t accept him? Nervous that she would betray him? What was he nervous about? He had someone who loved him. He had nothing to ever worry about. I ran my fingertips across the moss for a few seconds before I stormed out of the vicinity. I made sure to disrupted them.
I felt my rib cages rattling as a storm brewed within me. Unexpectedly, it was a silent storm. Comforting salt trickled into the corners of my mouth. That night, I realized why I stutter. I stutter because I am afraid that no one will ever love me. No one will ever want me. Not like my father did. I missed him. I missed him despite those nights where he would tell me I needed to play a game with him. I missed him despite those nights where he told me that no one would love me like him, that no one would ever want me as he did. I missed him despite his disregard for my screams and cries.
He was never truly gone, and he resided within me like some god forsaken virus. He would never leave, he would never let me live. He had coated his crimes in honey and expected me to forever love him. And it hurt, even more, knowing that I would.
That night, I dreamt of all the good things I could think of.
Of lavender, of sugar, of honey.