He always said the wind blew like the devil the night I was born. And as I grew in years, the wind increased. He’d say that and then out of the corner of his eye he would give a stare to me. Then the laugh, the gruff laugh so I never knew if he was kidding or if there was a serious tone to what he said.
Maybe I did believe him; the wind did whip around the house stronger and with more anger every year. I didn’t think it was my fault. The wind was part of life where we lived. Part of everyone’s life. But In his mind that wind demon grew right along with me. Kindred spirits there to plague his life and the wrath he felt he deserved. Somehow it justified how he never deserved me.
I don’t have memories of being a bad child. He said I cried a lot, especially the first few months, that I added misery upon misery with my shrilled cries. Was it this that made me a bad child in his mind? Wasn’t I also cute? Lovable? Didn’t I grasp his large thumb in my fist, like all playful babies do? There must have been some redeeming qualities I had.
“Such a rotten child” he would tell me on his worst nights. Nights when the moon didn’t shine and dusk came into the house covering it like the coldest midnight. His dark words sucking the light from the rooms, making even the bravest heart want to hide. He could rampage the entire house and never leave his Lazyboy. Bellows echoed through the rooms, screaming with the wind until they would reach my ears, trying to settle within my being, quaking close to my heart.
Did I cry during those nights? I don’t remember. I may have looked for shelter under my thin bed covers but I don’t think they would have ever helped me.
“I can be better, I can be more,” I whispered to my small being
We developed a rhythm, him and me. He taunting my useless person and me aspiring, trying to excel, trying to change the cycle we were in. Why did I bother? Shouldn’t I at some point have believed and accepted what the bellowed voice said of me, what he thought of me. How dense is a body that can’t accept what it is told?
Evidently, for me, my thick denseness sheltered my form. Somehow his message, in all of its loudness, just couldn’t find my soul to settle in. So many nights were spent with his darkness how could the cruel words not be there when daylight came through? Did the sun have so much power that it killed them all?
Yes, I believe. His words sent from the rage of the wind, loomed over me, ready to suck the life out of my body.
But the sun, the power of light would come streaming through the thin curtains of my room. Its rays would extend to all the corners and kill the vampirism words before they could strike. And my life, my life was then left untouched, unmarked by the untrue cruelty of his rage.
That must have been what happened.
He used the wind as his enemy, and the reason for his anger. He brought the dark words to be his friend, a comfort for his rage.
In my world, in the lonely small room under my covers, I had the morning, its light, its energy.
He never figured that out I think, smiling to myself. The light always returns, always. I just had to wait for it.