Chicken and Rice by Christelle Xu

She bowed her head over the chicken breast. A single tear stained with dark mascara dripped onto her bare thigh. The room smelt of slow cooked chicken and rice, but it was devoid of people. The television was on, but she heard nothing. Another tear forms this time gliding down her olive toned cheek.

She takes a bite. Then begins to sob. Hopelessly, helplessly she walks to the blue couch and lies down. She settles into the safety of the fetal position, quietly sobbing out the ache pounding at her heart.

The TV continues to blare yet she hears nothing.

BLAME, BLAME, BLAME, she blames herself, for not previously understanding her father better, for being too selfish in her unsteady world to realize how much he does for her.

Dad went to bed without a bite, and the next day, she found the bowl she'd brought up to him covered in saran wrap, untouched.

It was another stab, another ache.

The ache of knowing that she'd disappointed him, that she'd hurt him in some way.

He'd hurt her too, emotionally. She sits up and begins to watch the shining characters on TV. The Character had found her mother, and that mother had begun to fill a gaping hole she'd tried so hard to fill with music and talent.

Again her mind drifts. A mother.  Someone who would understand without saying a word. Had she been trying to fill that same hole with gifts and talents she force fed herself?

Emotionally drained, she climbs into bed, lights off, door shut.

She hears a stir in the next room, heavy footsteps undeniably her fathers, and she traces them to the downstairs kitchen. In a moment, she hears his door slam shut.

Daydreaming of an empty bowl, she falls asleep.