LITERARY | When the Breadwinner Tastes Defeat

If my family’s in a war, I would be the only one to survive, not because they were weak, but because they were too reliant to even hold their own weapons.

I’m 18, out of school, a veteran in the field of survival. My mother never had to touch the ink of unpaid bills; I was forced to drink it. I juggled between jobs that seem to never leave a cent on my pocket. My father was not a cripple but his feet were anchored on the chair, waiting for food to be served. 

I had to be the sole provider of a family that doesn’t know how to feed a caged parrot unless it sings for them first.

It’s 11 pm, yet I am wide awake, sitting on the rusty rails of a chair inside our damp veranda. As the cold breezes, my worn-out cardigan reflects the feelings of tiredness and worries. My finger travels its way to my screen. My mind tries to memorize the unread messages I sent to my brother.

I watched as the three dots appeared and suddenly vanished. It’s like a ghost of heartbeat on a glowing screen. I know he’s out there somewhere, breathing the very opposite air that suffocates me. He’s out there enjoying life, and dancing with his luck. I am left here exhausted. Perhaps I never learned how to follow the rhythm of footsteps he performs. 

I wonder if he ever looked in his hands and feel the lightness of the weapons he gave me when he ran away. I wonder if he knew that his little brother is outnumbered on a war in which he is the only one left fighting. 

I let out a sigh of disappointment. After all what he did, I cannot blame him. My brother’s too brave to leave a war he knows he could never win. My brother indeed choose to live his life, while I’m left here barely surviving.

My screen turned dark, and reflected my weary eyes back at me. Eyes that are flooded by tears, yet nothing dared to escape. The silence of the veranda that became my comfort was broken by the heavy creak made by the floorboards inside—a reminder that the parrot is being summoned again. 

I stood up, my joints imitates a frail old man as it cracks. I pulled my frayed cardigan tighter to hold the last bit of warmth before entering a house that swallows my soul until I turn pale.

“Our fridge’s empty again, Ren.” My mother said without looking at me. 

“I wasn’t paid yet, and Mom, I already told you to save for—” 

“Do you want your dad to starve? It is the only thing we ask for you. We’ve sacrificed too much raising you as a kid and now you weeds after our food? How ungrateful of you!” 

Parrots learn how to talk when their tongues are cut-off. But they cut-off mine for me to stop talking.

I stood there, what she just said seemed harder to digest than the bitter ink of unpaid bills. I wanna throw-up but my throat is strangled. 

Can’t they see the dark circles under my sunken eyes? Are my callouses not thick enough for them to scrape-off? I only want them to hold my shaking hands caused by a twelve-hour shift. I only want them to give me a full glass of gratitude and hydrate my dried soul. 

But I guess the only thing they see is the empty fridge. I guess they no longer see me as a son, nor as their accomplice in this war. They treat me as a vendo machine that had already been jammed. I want to run away as what my brother did. Maybe with my absence, they’d finally see why the fridge is empty. Maybe if I leave, the reflections will hit their eyes till they're blinded by its rays of truth. But how could I leave when this cage is locked up by my conscience and by the fear of failing as their son?

I did not argue. I did not tell her that my brother’s silence is louder than her screams. In my room, I turned my back to them, as I couldn’t do it from their lives. Before the creak of my room’s door stopped, I stole a glance at them staring at me, their eyes were hollow, and if I dig into those deeper; confusion’s what I would find. Perhaps, they never expect that the parrot they thought was utterly muted is starting to poke its peck on its owners. I reached for my long untouched sheets, and covered it on my bruised knees. I am eighteen. I am a veteran. I am dead. I just haven’t found the time to lie down yet.