A Sense of Vellichor

Stabbing someone isn’t as hard as it sounds… or maybe I’m inexplicably stubborn.

Calling my bluff has never done anyone any good, including myself. These memories come back to me in snapshots. It felt as if I were watching instances of my life wave over my eyes like a rolling film canister through a projector, and in each one, stubbornness was the underlying theme.

My memories came as clear as the sun on a hot summer’s day. The scent of freshly baked orange cake—my grandmother’s favourite—flooded my senses, and I was instantly transported back to my childhood home. Little footsteps echoed across the apartment as I wandered into the living room, the curtains’ vibrant colours attacking my eyes and branding themselves onto my brain. The pink pacifier in my hands did nothing to ease my parents’ irritation as they beckoned me to join them on the wine-coloured couch, to which I blatantly refused in an attempt to stay away from the dreaded talk. It was a cruel thing to try and discard a child of their pacifier. Granted, I was five years old and needed to outgrow the pink object—but it was still my most prized possession. My father’s voice broke through my train of thought, and I stared at him, trying to process the words he’d uttered yet failing to understand his manipulative ways, “Stay away from the balcony, and don’t drop that pacifier.”

My footsteps echoed with determination as I approached the balcony, directly defying my father and tiptoeing toward the edge of it. The air filled with tense anticipation, hopeful eyes following me as they watched their deception fulfill a long-awaited prophecy. A cool breeze of air ruffled through my black curls, the short locks slightly obstructing my vision as I gathered all the strength my small arms could muster and flung the pacifier over the edge of the balcony. I watched the pink object disappear into the distance before turning to my parents, a smile of triumph grazing my lips as I returned to the living room gleefully.

It was less than an hour later when it dawned on me. The gravity of what I had been skillfully manipulated into doing caused me to break into a state of hysteria. My little feet hit the ground as I ran to my grandparents’ room, the sound of my distressed footsteps muffled by the rough colourful carpets that I knew all too well. “The- they—”

The words died on my tongue, the bitter taste of what I had done not too long ago resurfacing as I burst into the targeted room and clung onto my grandmother’s arm. The beige furniture and earth-toned colours in the room posed a stark contrast to the painfully bright carpentry scattered throughout the apartment, yet it did nothing to calm my frenzied state as I begged my grandparents to help me find my pacifier that I had lost at the hands of my own stubbornness.

After hours of sulking amongst the bushes surrounding the building, the next morning, my grandparents regrettably informed me of their failed investigation while trying to ease my escalating hysteria. My theatrical performance was soon cut short as the makers of my misery—my parents—entered my field of vision with a brand-new pacifier. It was their cheap attempt at a peace offering, induced by the makers of their misery—my grandparents—due to the scolding they’d received as a result of manipulating a five-year-old angel.

The household’s relief was short-lived as I stomped my feet against the cold ground, the absence of a rug adding an element of dread to an already darkened day. It was at that moment that I decided I was going to make this everybody’s problem, stubbornly demanding the safe return of my poor precious pink pacifier.

I like to imagine that they still regret that day.

It was apparent that my parents had reached their limit when it came to my hysterical tendencies, and so I was soon banished to the first grade… or at least that’s what it felt like.

I had grown accustomed to the sound of other kids chattering within the four sapphire walls of the classroom, however, it was unusual for them to purposely attempt to disturb my peace. The school uniform clung to my figure, confining me in ways that I wasn’t too fond of, and it felt like I was permanently engulfed in an unwanted hug. The colourful and oddly shaped tables did nothing to distract me from the ongoing objectionable contents of the Maths lesson, the wooden tables seemingly inspired by splatters of vibrantly coloured substances, reminiscent of the carpets we had at home.

The boy seated to my left had been nagging at me for what felt like an eternity, his pointer finger repeatedly poking at my shoulder in an attempt to gain my fleeting attention. My voice dripped with irritation as I finally turned to him, “Do that one more time and I’ll stab your hand.”

Regrettably, he decided to call my bluff. My patience was wearing thin, and it was suffice to say that my stubborn nature resurfaced at what I presumed to be a challenge instilled by the boy. His left palm rested against the table, and I saw a perfect opportunity. I reached into my stuffed pencil case, a few coloured pencils falling out and clattering against the table as I withdrew my hand with my small fist enclosed around a lead pencil. My neatly clipped nails dug into my palm, my knuckles whitening with the sheer force of my determined grip. In one swift motion, and to my sadistic delight, the lead tip buried itself into the boy’s hand. His abrupt cry gained our classmates’ attention as I pressed the pencil further into the dorsal side of his hand before triumphantly redirecting my gaze to the chalkboard ahead.

My sense of achievement and satisfaction was short-lived as the teacher rushed towards the boy and I. His eyes flooded with tears, spilling out and leaving their evidence in the form of tear streaks against the olive-toned skin of his face. After inspecting his injured hand, she instantly ushered him out of the classroom and towards the nurse’s office. The boy’s cries and oddly timed hiccups echoed throughout the corridors, gradually diminishing in the distance till the paled teacher returned to the classroom. “Get up!”

I scarcely had the time to process that her words were aimed at me before her calloused hand wrapped around my clothed arm, dragging me to the front of the classroom till I was stood before my peers. She released my arm and my hands briskly clasped behind my back as I rocked back and forth on the heels of my feet. The creaky air conditioner was sat directly to my right, and the cold breeze caused me to squirm. Her voice filled the classroom and her perfectly plausible question hung in the air, “Why would you do that?”

My teeth sunk into my lower lip, chewing down instinctively. If my actions hadn’t sent a chilling shiver down her spine, my cheeky response surely would have.

“He said I wouldn’t,” I shrugged.

Her lips parted and her mouth hung open as she stared at me with something that strangely resembled disbelief, a glint of confusion passing through her emerald eyes, “Oh.”

Perhaps my parents should’ve kept my stubbornness and I confined in the safety of our vibrantly coloured house… but stabbing someone truly wasn’t as hard as it sounds.