The sweetness of ice cream

Fine silky texture atop an elegantly shaped cone on a summer day is the perfect remedy to alleviate the heat. In other words, stuff yourself with ice cream and you’ll be taken into another world where everything is white: where you can walk on the ground, slip, and fall into the sweet ecstasy, gobbling everything up.

However, even ice cream land has its sun.

The sun suddenly rises in the middle of my face-stuffing, radiating its heat, melting all my fantasies away. It was back to reality. I am in my room, listening to my parents, with melted ice cream.

Dad comes home late, again. He had taken a little excess of his own ecstasy and is inebriated. Mom didn’t like this. They see each other. Mom says nothing. Dad says nothing. All is quiet.

A few days pass and I’m still in my room, this time eating a chocolate ice cream when I suddenly hear a loud scream. I run, dropping some ice cream on the ground, as if leaving a trace for me to come back to my room.

I see my Mom, holding a flower vase on her head. “Why? Why do you keep doing this to me? Do you live solely to torture my life? I will not take any more of this! Let me die. Let me die! Don’t ever touch me again,” she screams at my father, who desperately tries to contain her in his grasp.

“Please, my wife, stop doing this already. Don’t do this to yourself. Think about the kids. What will they do without you?” he says, trying his best to form clear-cut sentences in his intoxicated state.

“This is just pathetic! You come home, once again, drunk. I’ve told you time and time again that this will only continue to destroy your liver, yet you continue to do it. It’s like you have no other goal than to please yourself,” she replies.

My mom had enough. Struggling against the man to whom she was bonded to, she tries desperately to smash the vase on her head.

I drop my chocolate ice cream, and with chocolate tears, I run away. Desperately, I try to go back to ice cream land and submerge myself into the same white stricken ground. With all my effort, I was trying to hide under all the shades of the dessert.

As soon as I got myself to the bottom, I stopped. I sit. It starts to get hotter. I start to breathe heavier. Everything around me starts to melt. And as I open my eyes after melting water gushes out of my eyes, I’m back, in my room, alone, with an ice cream cup full of tears.

I burst. I scream. I let it all out. All I wanted was for them to be happy, for our family to be happy. I don’t want to see any more fights. With a little mustered up courage, I approach my parents, still in their war zone.

Standing in the middle of them, I weep. Weep so hard that the floor itself was starting to melt. Maybe I was bringing back ice cream land to my parents, desperately showing them that there is a place where all of us can be happy.

“You guys keep on fighting. Every day, I see you guys and my heart swelters. It molds itself into tight compression, almost as if I was suffocating on emotions. Do you understand what you guys are mentally doing to all of us?” I shout at them, trying to project and smash every word into their faces.

“Why can’t it just be like the old times? Where Dad would carry me on his shoulders and Mom patting my head?”

They look at me. They stare. Then, they looked at each other. They stare. All was quiet. Only the ever-growing pump of my heartbeat is heard. My parents, at that moment, realize that there is something bigger than both of them. They realized that they became monsters.

Leaving the room in a haste, my Dad suddenly stops me and says to me, “Son, I heard there’s a new ice cream shop in town? Want to go there together, with Mom and your sisters?”

“Of course, Dad,” I say, preparing the way to a new ice cream land.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.