Holden had kept a journal which upon he spilled every drop of blood he dared to call his own. Because he might’ve owned his soul, but nothing more, because his parents stamped their name like tattoos upon his wrists, his neck, his forehead, anything he dared to show, because he wasn’t just his own, he was owned.
‘Everyone tells me I have my mother’s eyes. Shining green like emeralds, and my brother’s a pale crystal blue, like diamonds.We are a broken scatter of jewels locked behind the walls of this house, the bars on our windows keeping our glow away from the world. We wait to be rescued, to be mined and sold like property, because that’s all we are in this family. Nothing but a broken pair of belongings that our parents want desperately to throw away, but they show us off instead. They polish us, shine us, scrub us clean and send us off into the world with a one-thousand page manual telling us how to act.
When people say to me that I have my mother’s eyes, I want to tell them, “No, they are not my mother’s. My mother’s eyes are sad and dark and empty. She does not own these eyes. These eyes have hope, they are bright and happy. These eyes are mine, just like every part of me is my own.”
I am not pieces of two seemingly perfect things jammed together in an attempt to be a near perfect replica. I am not ingredients tossed into a bowl and mixed together. I am all parts me, not one part this and one part that. So don’t say that I am anything like my parents. They shove me and my brother behind a broken frame, forcing us to smile when all we want to do is scream for someone to save us.
That is not a family. That is a cocktail of alcohol and poison mixed together so you can’t tell the difference. Do not mistake us for someone else when all we are is ourselves.
Which is something we are not allowed to be unless we keep it a secret.’