The Weight of Grudges

The Weight of Grudges

The house was always cold, even in the sweltering heat of summer. Its walls, crumbling and thick with dust, seemed to sag under the weight of old secrets, the air heavy with memories long forgotten. Wen traced the chipped frame of a portrait hanging in the dim hallway—a fierce woman with wild, defiant eyes. Her great-great-grandmother, sword in hand, looked ready for war. The anger on her ancestor’s face burned through the generations, fueling Wen’s own rage.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Wen whispered to the portrait, her fists clenched at her sides. Silence pressed in around her, like it always did. The stories passed down from her family were as fragmented as brittle relics. No one could name the specific wrongs that had been done to them, but the anger remained. Always the anger. It was as much a part of her as her name.

At school, Wen wore that anger like armor. In history class, as the teacher droned on about ancient conquests and wars, Wen’s hands curled into fists under the desk. **They get to know their history. They know where they come from. I don’t even know who my people are.**

“Wen?” The teacher’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Is there something you’d like to share?”

Her eyes flashed. “Why do we only learn about their history? Why don’t we know anything about ours?” she spat, her voice sharp with defiance.

The class shifted uneasily, and the teacher blinked in surprise. “History is—”

“I don’t care,” Wen snapped, rising to her feet. “It’s all lies anyway.” Without waiting for a response, she stormed out, her heart pounding with rage. For a brief moment, she imagined her great-great-grandmother watching, her expression one of approval.

Later, in the hallway, a girl brushed past her, barely acknowledging her. That was enough. Wen shoved her hard against the lockers, metal clanging loudly. “Watch where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl whispered, eyes wide with fear as she tried to break free.

Wen didn’t let go. She leaned in closer, eyes blazing. “You should be.”

A teacher’s voice boomed from down the hall. “Wen! Not again!”

The girl slipped away as Wen turned, a smirk twisting her lips. They don’t know anything about my anger. None of them understand.

At home, the silence was colder than ever. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, staring out of the window, her face lined with the same bitterness that haunted Wen. The bitterness of unspoken grievances.

“They don’t care about us,” her mother muttered, her voice flat. “The world has forgotten what was done to our family.”

“But what was it?” Wen demanded, her voice cracking. “Why don’t we know?”

Her mother’s eyes were empty as she shook her head. “We know enough. We were wronged. And that’s all we need to remember.”

From the shadows of her window, Wen watched Eleri, the new woman in town. Eleri moved with an easy grace that infuriated Wen—laughing as she planted flowers outside her cottage, her hands creating beauty while Wen’s were constantly curled into fists, ready to destroy.

One day, the anger boiled over. Wen was walking home after a fight with her boyfriend when she saw Eleri in the street. Storm clouds gathered overhead, mirroring her mood.

“Good afternoon!” Eleri called out, her voice light, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Wen.

Wen stopped, glaring at her. “What do you want?” she snapped, her words dripping with venom.

Eleri tilted her head, her smile unfaltering. “You seem angry. Why are you so angry?”

The question hit Wen like a slap. Why am I angry? She wanted to shout that Eleri wouldn’t understand, that she had no right to ask. But the words caught in her throat. Instead, Wen glowered. “You wouldn’t get it.”

Eleri’s eyes softened, her voice gentle but unwavering. “Maybe I wouldn’t. But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

That word, ‘alone’, hung in the air, following Wen long after she stomped away, unable to shake the feeling that Eleri had seen something in her that she hadn’t wanted anyone to see.

That night, Wen couldn’t sleep. Rain pounded against her window as she paced, the question gnawing at her. Why am I angry? It was like a second skin, a part of her she couldn’t remove.

Before she realized it, she was standing outside Eleri’s door, her fists trembling. The door opened, and Eleri stood there, smiling as if she had been expecting her all along.

“I’m angry because my family was wronged,” Wen blurted, her voice shaking. “But I don’t even know who did it, or why. I just... I can’t stop feeling it. It’s always there.”

Eleri nodded, her eyes kind. “Do you even know who your ancestors were?”

Wen’s breath caught in her throat. Did she?

That night, Wen’s dreams were filled with shadows. She stood on a cracked, barren wasteland, the ground splitting beneath her feet. Dark figures moved in the distance—faceless, but familiar. Their eyes burned with the same fury that had haunted her all her life.

“You carry our pain. Don’t forget. Don’t forgive.”

The words echoed in her ears, weighing her down. Wen tried to move forward, but the ground shifted beneath her, pulling her back.

Suddenly, her great-great-grandmother stepped out of the mist, sword raised high, just as she was in the portrait. Wen froze, her breath shallow as the blade gleamed in the dim light. But instead of striking, her ancestor lowered the sword, her face softening.

“This anger,” her ancestor said quietly, “is not yours to carry anymore.”

Tears stung Wen’s eyes. “But who am I without it?”

The sword swung down, severing her head from her body. But there was no pain, only release. The battlefield faded, and where the cracked earth had been, flowers bloomed, their colors bright against the barren landscape.

Wen awoke with a start, her hand instinctively reaching for her neck. It was whole. But the anger was gone. For the first time in her life, her chest felt light, unburdened.

She found herself standing in front of Eleri’s cottage, knocking softly. When the door opened, Eleri greeted her with the same gentle smile. “You look different,” she said.

Wen nodded, her voice barely a whisper. “I let it go.”

In the weeks that followed, the change in Wen became noticeable. The townspeople no longer saw her prowling the streets, fists clenched, looking for a fight. She spent her days working with Eleri, planting flowers and tending to the earth. Her hands, once always ready to strike, were now soft and gentle, creating instead of destroying.

The anger that had defined her for so long was gone. In its place was a quiet peace. As the sun set one evening, Wen sat beside Eleri, watching the light fade over the garden they had planted together.

“You’ve really changed,” Eleri said softly.

Wen smiled, her heart light for the first time in years. “I’ve found peace.”