6 Sinking in Solitude

When I wake up the next day and look at this unbearable white room, I can't help but sigh. I'm tired. I pick up my phone and check the time. 08:30, I woke up late; I must be really exhausted. After brushing my teeth, I go downstairs and see a maid sitting on the sofa, laughing while playing on her phone. She probably heard my steps on the stairs; she got up so fast I thought she would fly if she pushed herself a little harder. She quickly put her phone in her pocket with a panicked look and asked if I needed anything.

"What's your name?"

"My name is Ângela, sir."

"It's a pleasure, Ângela. No need to be nervous; I'm not as strict as my father. When you have nothing to do, feel free to relax."

I say this with a smile, trying to calm her down.

"Yes, sir, thank you. How can I help you?"

"Could you please make breakfast? Something simple will do."

"I'll do it right away, Mr. Ravi."

After she calmed down, I noticed her glancing at my head, trying to hold back laughter. My hair must look awful. I grabbed my phone and called Roger, asking him to arrange for a hairdresser to fix the mess I made. I ran to my room and put on a cap to hide the abstract art I had created on my head. After 10 minutes, breakfast was ready. Scrambled eggs with tomato and cheese, milk, and bread.

Once I finished eating, I waited for the hairdresser to arrive. I started imagining what it would be like at the boarding school. Will they make fun of my appearance too? I'm so tired of it already. I just want to go unnoticed, at least once. I hear the intercom ringing and pick up the communicator.

"Mr. Ravi?"

"Yes, it's me."

"There's a man here who says he's a hairdresser; he said you called him. Should I let him in?"

He arrived faster than I expected, but I'm glad I'll get this fixed soon. Then a thought crossed my mind—I don't want this white hair anymore.

"Let him in, but first, ask if he can dye my hair black."

"Yes, sir. He can, but you'll need to buy the dye."

"Ask him which dye he prefers and send someone to buy it. In the meantime, he can cut my hair."

"Yes, sir."

Soon, I hear him coming in and see a man between the ages of 50 and 70. I bet my father thought if it were a younger man, I'd sleep with him, hence this choice. How pathetic.

"Hello, sir, my name is Márcio..."

He looked at my hair and almost laughed.

"How would you like your hair? I see you've already worked on it."

"I want it at ear length. I'll leave the style up to you."

We went to the garage to cut the hair so as not to dirty the house. While we were cutting, a security guard arrived with the dye.

"Are you only dyeing your hair, sir?"

"Dye everything—eyebrows and even eyelashes if possible."

"I can't do the eyelashes, but I recommend black mascara; it's a great disguise."

After everything was done, he left, and I couldn't stop looking at myself in the mirror. Finally, that irritating color was gone; I felt like crying seeing myself. Since when did I start hating the white in my hair? Was it really the white in my hair that I hated? If so, why do I still hate what I see in the mirror? I take off my clothes and stand naked, looking at my thin body with slightly visible muscles. I turn around and look at my back, my buttocks, my legs, arms, belly... and finally, I realize. My hair was never the problem.

I lie down on the bed, put on my headphones, and listen to the song that perfectly expresses how I'm feeling, *idontwannabeyouanymore* by Billie Eilish. As I hear her soft, breathy voice through the headphones, I start remembering all the times I was bullied, all the times my father hit me or called me trash, a shameful little queer, how I always hated my hair. And I whisper to myself:

"Why did I feel that? Why should I hate myself? What did I do?"

I couldn't find answers to those questions. My mind went blank, and the music echoed in my head.

"I-I don't wanna be you"

"I don't wanna be you"

"I don't wanna be you, anymore"

That's when I started to cry. But I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to be so fragile; I don't want to be like I am now. I will be what I want to be, not what I have to be.

After listening to this song on endless loops, with my head under the covers, someone knocked on my door. I wiped away the tears that never stopped falling and said I was coming, trying to keep my voice steady. I open the door and see Ângela; she looks at me with a worried expression but doesn't say anything. She tells me that dinner is ready and heads downstairs. I wash my face in the bathroom and see in the mirror the bags that formed under my eyes, which are red from all the crying.

At least my father isn't here to call me a weak, useless person, like he always does when I cry.

And as I go downstairs, I hear my father's voice. My heart races, and I feel my legs weaken. I take a deep breath and maintain my posture. I won't be the scared little boy I used to be. When my father hears my steps, he starts talking.

"Ravi! I've already arranged everything at the boarding school; as soon as the holidays are over, you'll start there immediately."

"Good evening, DEAR FATHER. I'm fine, thank you. I'm glad you're concerned about me. Yes, I'm recovering well, thank you for asking. I'm sure you're doing great too. How do I know? Because someone without emotions doesn't suffer because of them."

"YOU!!! You little brat, don't you have any respect? Where did I go wrong in raising you to grow up like this...?"

"Interesting question, DAD. Should I even call you that? I think Roger deserves it more. He's the one who actually raised me; you just provided money. If you're going to complain about where you went wrong in raising me, you should at least have the decency to realize that you've always treated me like a stranger. A father shows up once every three months to tell me how useless I am. And my mother? Remember that while she was dying in a hospital bed, you were with that woman you now call your wife in a motel room?"

I see the shocked expression on my father's face, his eyes slightly trembling. I think I saw guilt in his expression. He looks at me, and without making a sound, I think his lips move in an apology. He grabs a suitcase that seems to be packed with clothes and walks out the door. I'm confused by this.

"Ângela! Why was my father here?"

"He was planning to spend the rest of the holiday period here, sir. He arrived about five hours ago and hasn't stopped asking how you're doing."

I ran to the door, just to see my father's car in the distance. And again, that feeling I thought I had overcome comes back.

I guess it's not so easy to be someone else.

I start crying again. I go up to my room; I'm not hungry at all now. I lie on the bed and look around, seeing the white color on the walls. I feel like my hatred for this color has grown much stronger.