She was an angry child. And as they say, angry children grow into angry adults.
Her parents barely noticed, but then they barely noticed her at all. They were busy, of course, being ambitious, being successful, being wealthy. And so in turn she had all the toys, all the benefits, of their commitment and toil. But she didn’t have them, and she was angry, and they didn’t even notice that at all.
She did well at school. Anger can be a fire, like competition. Perhaps she also wanted them to notice her material, academic success. That’s all they cared about, after all, the successes of the world. But they didn’t even see that. Maybe they expected it and took it for granted, like her. Maybe they didn’t really care because it wasn’t about them. Maybe she was just an extension of them, if even that. And she was angry, so angry about that.
She grew into the angry adult any observer would have foretold. But there were no observers, not even them, not even her parents. They didn’t even see her that day, coming quiet into their home office, on adult tip toe. They were arguing about a point of business, or maybe politics. It was always one or the other, and she didn’t care which.
They didn’t notice the knife, but they did notice the pain. It was the last thing they noticed. Because by then it was too late to notice anything else, even her anger.
Far, far too late to notice the angry girl they should have loved, but only ignored.
(c) Helen M Valentina 2016