Despite the relief of knowing my parents were officially arriving on Monday, as originally planned, Sunday remained a busy day and was no better for it. However, their visit brought an improvement to my room, and such a pleasant change leaves me with a mellow satisfaction. The storage containers, bags, and cardboard boxes that had long occupied one side of the room were finally removed, and in their place now stands a newly bought brown wooden cabinet.
My sister, upon reading Kafka's The Metamorphosis, once told me she felt guilty for the reason that just like Gregor Samsa’s family, they had turned my room into a place for shoving away unwanted things. For a moment, I thought she was alluding to the quiet despair that Kafka’s poor creature symbolised, as though she saw in me the same alienation, dehumanisation, and societal neglect that which consumed him. But I dismissed the notion as quickly as it arose—surely, she spoke only in jest, an idle comparison.
I once read that it was Kafka himself who fathered that peculiar question social media has turned into a girlfriend’s favourite tool for tormenting their boyfriend: "Would you still love me if I were a worm?"
A clever and amusing connection. However, if a lover of mine were to ask me that, my answer would automatically be no. Kidding. I would still love them, yes—but they would be dead to me. Worms repulse me to my very core. And if I were to turn into one, just kill me. Out of love, out of hate—any motivation is acceptable. My horror of worms stems not from their existence but from their appearance: their grotesquely segmented skin, like tiny, wrinkled rings stacked upon one another, giving them a ridged, almost accordion-like texture. The way they move—expanding, contracting, shifting in unnatural waves.. I've always thought their mouths resemble a living, eating anus, and the way they stretch as if searching for your very skin to penetrate, either to suck your blood or to infest your flesh—oh, god. In a sea of gruesome tortures and brutal eviscerations my mind has conjured, the worst nightmares I’ve had were the ones in which I was forced to eat a spaghetti of live earthworms. Holy fucking Scheiße. I just had a gag reflex thinking about it. These wriggling, slimy, tiny creatures are absolutely and terribly vile to me. It's not just an irrational fear I harbour; it's visceral, gut-wrenching disgust. Why does my brain do this to me?
Perhaps, in this, I am no better than Gregor’s father, recoiling in revulsion from what should still be dear. Poor Gregor.
But I digress.
I never planned on remaining here indefinitely, so the storage boxes in my room never bothered me. Although it is a place of solitude—and you know how much I love solitude—I have placed no attachment to it, always intending to leave someday.
At present, as I write this, I sit in my now air-conditioned room, the air cool, the bedsheets fresh, and two new pillows nestled among the cushions I have used for a year. (Ha. I could have easily bought pillows for myself, yet with the conviction that they functioned the same, I tolerated the cushions. However, in reality, that conviction was only created out of sheer laziness.) Ordinarily, at this hour—ten in the morning, and on a Monday, no less—I would be occupied with my niece. However, today, the little monster is with her grandparents, and this stolen moment from routine is a sweet treat I savour with silent happiness, albeit tinged with the bitter knowledge that it could be broken at any moment.
Ah, indeed I spoke too soon, because there it goes. My momentary respite, shattered. A swap has just been made—my parents, bringing along the little leprechaun, now occupy my chamber, while I find myself downstairs. Yet this interruption I do not resent, for the compensation of their intrusion is the blissful silence of my niece’s habitual shrieks; a little banshee subdued by the novelty of fresh company.
My mother, as is her wont, did not arrive empty-handed. Along with the plush toys for her granddaughter were the dresses she had selected for me—three of them. However, they are the sort of dresses I would wear only at home, for the special black one she had set aside for me was, unfortunately, forgotten. A party dress, she said. And despite the lack of my social life in this place, it still disappointed me that the one that mattered most was left behind. The other dresses are pretty enough—all light and soft and suited for the ease of comfort; they will be a nice change from the unflattering maternal dresses I've been wearing.
Update: It is Thursday now. I take back my misgivings from the previous entry. My parents’ presence has not burdened me as I feared—it has lightened my load. With them here, the house has shifted; there are more hands to tend to chores, more voices to entertain my niece. I find myself with more time to idle.
My father, as ever, takes his place outdoors, where he prefers to cook. The extra dishes I dreaded to wash had only been a product of my overanalysis, for never have I once needed to preoccupy myself with the kitchen utensils he uses when cooking, for he or mom washes them themselves. He has been at his best temperament, it's delightful. He whistles as he works, his manner untroubled, his patience unshaken, it is almost unfair. Even my niece’s inevitable mischief—the spilling of a bowl of cereal, milk soaking the tiled floor—oh, how amusing it is to him now, rather than a crime worthy of punishment. Had it been me as a child, he would have already whooped my arse. Breaking generational trauma, my sister says, but one cannot help but compare the ease with which today’s children grow up to the harsh discipline endured by older generations.
Yet despite three nights spent upon the couch, I do not mind their intrusion. There is comfort in their nearness, an ease in the way the house breathes differently with their presence. And now that they are on the verge of departing, I feel a reluctance I had not anticipated.
I wish they did not have to leave.
I wish they lived next door.