“Did you take a picture? Don’t put it on Facebook!” My Dad yells.
“No, Snapchat…” My voice trails off.
“What’s happening?” My Mum appears through the doorway.
“He’s taking pictures and putting them Snapchat!” My Dad exclaims almost over claps of thunder outside compared to my mother’s soft, self-assuring ‘oh’, “Don’t do that, stupid!”
It goes quiet, everything silent apart from the hard pitter-patter of the ominous rain. I begin to do the walk of shame towards the stairs before my dad asks harshly, “Do you think we like doing this sort of thing?”
I attempt to let out a ‘no’ or a ‘sorry’ or an ‘I won’t do it again’, yet once more my voice trails off and follows my fathers disappointed footsteps out to the kitchen.
I stood in confused disbelief as I listened to the ever-trembling storm and thought about what I had done. Yet, I had not a clue what was wrong, what I had done to be called upon out of nowhere. I doubt my Snapchat friends could care less about a leaky roof and the amount of bowls we had to use to catch all of the mess, but I found it rather humorous and wanted to share. My father did not. It was hard to think that all of this had occurred so unexpectedly. Only minutes before both of us were in a relatively cheery mood, trading remarks on how high the water had gotten and the fact we forgot to switch the pool’s filter off.
“I’m not turning it off,” he spitefully stated.
“Yeah you are,” I playfully regarded.
I accepted the fact that things I could say or do would have either a bad or good consequence, yet with this one I felt like I was pulled up blind in the dark. I had no clue it would have such a negative impact.
The shower was my seldom hiding spot. No one came in and it was the one place I could gather my thoughts. It was also a quiet place to express how I felt; if I wanted to cry it was probably the best place to do so.
I re-lived the scenario several times in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong. The more I tried to do so, the more frustrated I became. I created my own scenarios: the ones where I became the victim, where my father was in the wrong and how he came to realise it. I knew that these possibilities were almost at zero-to-none chance of occurring. Thus, I became upset.
I then realised one of the key words within his anger-fuelled rant. It had probably been the first time my own father had called me stupid. He sounded just like the kids from school. Stupid was probably the one word that I absolutely despised. It was used constantly whether direct or indirect. I didn’t get terrible marks in class, but it wasn’t up to standard with most of them.
So, why do I still feel like I’ve done something wrong? All I know is that my choices will cause me grief and I do have an ability to avoid them. Maybe I’ll stop talking again.