A child memory

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All I can remember is that they were yelling at each other, once again. I was almost seven years old and I can still hear them as if it were yesterday. They were standing in front of each other. Their faces were red and contorted with anger. Mom had her mascara running down her cheeks and dad couldn’t stop pointing his finger at her. The three of us were in my bedroom. This little room that we decorated together a few months before, with its walls painted lilac and giant stickers of Cinderella everywhere, was now their battle field. They were now killing what was left of themselves with the few words that could express all the disappointments they had towards this disillusioned relationship. At this moment, I was standing between them. They seemed to be so tall but so empty and ugly. I’ve always been the reason of their dysfunction, but still, the only reason to keep the pace of this relationship. Suddenly, dad seemed to be out of control. Maybe he couldn’t contain his rage anymore. He started dancing everywhere in my room and everything that’s surrounded him was flying though the air making a violent music. Then he took mom to make her dance with him. She seemed soft and fragile, like a puppet, but her eyes were so big and looked terrorised. He was dancing again and again, but she wasn’t. They weren’t my parents anymore; they were just two sad ghosts dancing in a child’s room.

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