Butterfingers and Skittles used to coerce me into going to Church, into believing in God, into sitting still, into staying silent. Any squirm, question, outburst, trip to the bathroom, or heavy sigh would merit a warning: "We won't be going to Walgreen's after this if you don't shut up!" So I sat there, feet swinging, daring her to notice my internal emotions manifested in angry, subtly violent oppositions, punishing the kneeler for my oppression.
But then there was that morning that Dad looked older than usual, his eyes sunk deep with worry lines and discoloration... his expression was not the usual warm one with which we were greeted in the morning. He sat us down, sighing heavily like I would when I was forced to sit still or do something I didn't want, and told us, "Your mother and I... We, well... We are going to get a divorce."
The words hit me (us?) like a realistic nightmare, my (our?) stomach(s?) dropping, my (our?) heart(s?) stuck in my (our?) throat(s?)... And yet, we still had to trek to Church as a family. We got there and sat in the back. I sat on Dad's lap crying, Mom snapping at me to just shut up.
At that point, even Butterfingers and Skittles couldn't make me want to be there, couldn't make me believe in such a cruel God, couldn't make me sit still, couldn't make me muffle my desperate sobs.
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