I watch the cloth bag sink in the placid river. The world is dark but I close my eyes anyway, breathing in the earthy scents that surround me. The aroma is nice but offers no comfort. I open my eyes and see the bag at the bottom of the river. It belongs to the water now; soon, I will too.

My stomach growls. A few minutes ago I wanted food more than a cat wants to sleep--as Dad would have put it--but it no longer mattered. Dinner had come and gone and left me famished yet again, but my hunger pains were preferable given the only other option: chicken. Again. Grandfather didn’t understand what being a vegetarian meant. No, he understood; he thought I was being “childish and silly,” and going through a phase of “meat-hating for attention.”

“Utterly sickening,” he’d say. But he was smirking when I refused to participate in dinner that night. “How do you expect to grow up properly if you have such demented thoughts? It’s natural for us to eat animals. What else do they do for us?”

I tried my best to ignore him, fiddling instead with the ring on my left hand. Three crystals were inlaid in the band: Sapphire for mom, Sardonyx for me, and Topaz for dad. Dad gave the ring to mom on their seventh anniversary, when I was three.

“Robert, don’t,” Grandma had started in her usual weak tone. “She’s just at that age-” she said that often- “and needs to express herself and be unique.” I cringed every time Grandma used a clichéd parenting phrase. “Tori- may she rest in peace- was the same way as a girl; remember when we visited Aunt Emily’s farm? She wouldn’t eat meat for half a year after-”

Grandfather gave her the look typically reserved for me: the shut-up-and-don’t-you-contradict- me-again-if-you-ever-want-to-see-daylight-again scowl.

“I realize that Victoria had her peculiarities- dear- but we’re talking about her right now,” he said, turning back to me. “This child doesn’t have any of the discipline and responsibility her mother had.” In other words, I was depressed, antisocial, and skipped school a lot. Such flaws were unheard of in my perfect mother.

Grandfather was ranting again. Talking about his late daughter did that to him. “I can’t imagine how Tori raised such a dreadful child. I knew I shouldn’t have allowed her to marry that man; see his work?” You guessed it- he’s talking about me again. “This woeful girl is only a victim. I bet she’d have grown up normally if our Tori hadn’t married someone poor… My poor little girl,” he shook his head, master of theatrics. “Being saddled with such a- a terrible family.”

At that, I’d had enough. In general, I can ignore Grandfather and tell myself he was wrong; he was deluded; he didn’t know anything about my family. After a while, though, it gets harder to reassure myself that Grandfather’s reality isn’t the truth.

“Robert, don’t-” my timid grandmother would argue- time after time- and that was my only protection.

“Just shut up!” I yelled at Grandfather, abruptly standing. The pallid brown leg of my chair slashed against the back of my shin, leaving a pale scrape. I barely noticed the pain; I was too busy storming out of the dining room.

Later that night I would curse myself for my feeble comeback, wishing I had yelled at Grandfather, at least offered him some sort of punishment for his constant verbal abuse. It didn’t matter much anyways, though; I had finally made up my mind. He would never see me again.

After my outburst I went straight upstairs. I like to think of the room I sleep in as an impostor masquerading as my bedroom, because it’s certainly not the real thing. The walls are gray, for goodness sake. I hated being in a place so devoid of color. When I lived with mom and dad, I had purple walls, purple curtains, even a shaggy purple rug before my dresser.

I didn’t usually let myself think about being home with mom and dad, but I need it sometimes. We lived on the second floor a big-city apartment building. We were never rich like mom’s parents, but not poor like dad’s, either. I sang a lot. I don’t sing at all anymore, not since that last day.

It was my final recital for junior high school, the one marked on the calendar with in Big Green Pen. Dad only used that pen for special occasions. I remember beaming through a standing ovation, searching for a mirroring grin on my parents’ expressions.

They weren’t there.

My last memory of them is from the day before the recital. They were fighting.

It was something about Who Would Drive Daughter To School The Next Morning.

Daughter went to bed, took the bus the next morning, and never saw them again.

All things considered, the view from my window a few hours ago wasn’t extraordinarily depressing. I knew I had seen city lights for the last time. I knew I had seen school for the last time, and the plastic glowing-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, but I didn’t mind.

I soon ventured into the world with real, shining-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, carrying a purple pillowcase full of clothes that were never meant for me. Three gemstones cut into the palm of my right hand.

On the last day, I sang for my parents. They didn’t hear me, but the mosquitoes gave me a standing ovation and the wind made noisemakers out of the trees. They knew I was doing the right thing.

I said goodbye and the ring floated away.