Too Young For What?

The morning brings with it no solace from the pain that clouds my mind and my face. I can feel the rough ridges of the scabs that have formed over my wounds. I can still feel the ache in my heart that I have done something to make my parents want to supernate me. I don't even know what that is, but it does not sound pleasant. It does not sound like an expression of love like I am so used to receiving from my parents. I feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes and quickly wish them away, but they will not be wished from existence and I blot them with a corner of my bedsheet.

I dress quickly, trying to fan my long golden hair around my face to hide my wounds. I stare into the mirror for a long time before I realize that no hairstyle can obscure my shame. The tears threaten to fall again, but I will myself to put on a brave front. I must face my parents and let them see what a good girl I am. I have to show them that it is okay to love me--that I will not ever do what I did last night again if I can help it.

Entering the kitchen, I am greeted by a scene that makes me wonder if I just had a horrible dream from which I have barely awakened. My hand goes to my face, and I am rewarded with a twitch of pain as it connects with tender flesh. My mother has won. I can tell by the look on her face. The room is flooded with the scent of cinnamon rolls, baking slowly to fill the house with their comforting aroma. My father and mother sit side by side, two hands interlocked as they wait for the rolls to finish baking. They both smile at me reassuringly and my chilled heart melts enough to smile back.

"Have a seat, Bella," father says, gesturing to the chair in front of me.

I set my books down on the counter and sit down, wondering when the reassurance will melt and the nightmare will begin. Neither of them speaks. The silence grows. My doubts are renewed. Yet they both smile at me like the doting parents who have been with me through every step of my life to support me.

Finally, father's voice flows over me again, "Bella, darling, we love you. You have to remember that. No matter what you may hear or feel. We love you."

"I know," I say though my voice trembles as if I do not.

"Bella, people will try to tell you that no one loves you. They may try to convince you that just because you're different that you don't deserve to be loved. They'll try to tell you that only they can love you because they are different, too."

"But, daddy, I'm not different..." I begin.

"Darling, you are. You are different from other people, but you will always be the daughter that your mother and I have raised to only do what she knows to be right. Do you understand?"

"Yes, daddy. I didn't mean to...I don't know how...It just happened..."

Now the tears come and I can not staunch their flow. My cheeks are bathed in saltwater. My heart feels as if it is drowning in it as the tension in my chest rises. I put my head down. I don't want mother and father to see my crying. I don't want them to know how it hurts me.

I hear the scraping of chairs as they rise. I hear the oven open as my mother pulls out the warm rolls. My father's arms are around me. I am wrapped up in him, intoxicated by the comfortingly familiar scent of his aftershave.

"Honey, it's okay. We know you didn't do it on purpose. It's just part of who you are. Don't worry. When you're old enough, it will all be explained to you."

His words comfort me a little. As my sobs subside, I realize that my mother has knelt beside me as well. One hand is gently stroking my hair while the other holds a napkin with a cinnamon roll on it.

"You have to eat, darling. It will make you feel better. The bus will be here in a minute."

She wipes the remaining tears from my eyes as I pull my head out of the curve of my father's neck. I nibble sullenly, barely noticing the sweetness of the roll as I wash it down with some milk. I can hear the bus pulling up outside as my mother's concerned look falls on my scarred face.

"Oh dear, we really should cover that up..." She begins, but I am already headed to the door with my books in hand.