I wake up late,
every day, trying to hide from the world. My mother, as she does every morning,
was banging wildly on my bedroom door,
Yelling her usual, “Get up! Grab a brush and put on a little make up!”
I groan, my
mother and her obsession with appearances was getting out of control.
I didn’t want to
leave my room to meet her judging gaze, because once I did it was always the
same.
I do as she
says, however, for if I did not I was at risk of any number of her various
punishment methods. A push down the stairs, a hand on the stove, a back hand to
the face, whatever she can get away with when she catches me off guard.
I run the brush
through my snarled and hair and cover my skin with cover up a shade too dark,
in hope that maybe, just maybe, it’ll help cover my scars; help fade away the
shakeup.
After being
content with what I saw in the mirror, I undid the three locks on my bedroom
door and met my mother’s irritated face. When she first came to my door in the
mornings she was sweet, friendly almost as she cooed her good mornings, but as
I opened the door it was like a switch flipped and all the hatred she harbors
is hurled towards me. She suffers from bi-polar disorder, if you couldn’t tell,
and as a result when she finds herself in one of those dark spaces she often
visits, things can go a little awry. Technically, people that suffer from this
condition are supposed to have something like euphoric highs to balance out
their lows, but I don’t believe that. She must experience those while I’m away
at school. I always hear her friends gush about how sweet she is, about how
level-headed she is. If only they knew; if only they experienced the hell I went
through as stepped through the door every morning, and as I came home every
night.
As I look in her
eyes I could see her hatred smoldering, she looks at me like she looks at
herself, a vision of imperfection. I’ve never been one to care for looks because
I am not pretty, I didn’t have satin hair or bronzed skin or eyes that
sparkled. But I didn’t mind because I was intelligent and thoughtful, and my
paintings could blow anyone out of the water, but she couldn’t see that, she
just saw my mistakes.
“Why didn’t you
leave the keys upon the table?” She screams, froth flying from the corners of
her mouth, you’d swear she was rabid. I started to speak, but was cut off as
she got in my face. “Oh here you go, creating yet another fable.” She always
thought I was lying, maybe it was a guilty conscience or something, I’ll never
know.
Her rant
continued and I grew tired, because it was the same thing every day, the same
complaints and inquiries. I try my best to cheer her up and bring her back to
me but evil has its grasp on her heart. Still, every morning I ask if she wants
to do my hair and make-up, try to bring her back to those teenage years she
desperately wants to relive, but more often than not it just reminds her of
what she is not, and she is plunged into the pool of hatred she drowns in every
day. “You just had to take forever and grab a brush and put on make up.”
“But you wanted
me to….”
“Shut up Sue,
you can’t hide anything, you need more make up that ugliness will shake anyone
up.”
“I thought maybe
you’d want to.”
“So why didn’t
you leave the keys on the table? Because you wanted to? You just looovvveee
seeing me struggle every morning in search for them don’t you?”
It was a stupid
question, one I’d answered on countless mornings before, the keys were never
lost, they were always on the table under a magazine or in plain sight; I think
she just enjoys yelling at me. So I just walked past her as she huffed and
puffed along after me. I’ve learned that ignoring her and complying is the
easiest way to get out injury-free. This morning, however, something else had
rubbed her the wrong way and my failure to respond ended in a heavy shove into
my side. My mother was a petite woman, but she could be a force of nature. As
she collided with my side, I went tumbling down the set of stairs that branch
off from the hallway. I cried out as I hit the concrete wall that dictated the
end of the stairs, and gasped for breath as sharp pains shot up and down my
leg. I tried to pick it up with no luck, it was broken, or at least sprained,
much to my dismay.
I heard a cackle
from above and watched her slink away, proud of herself. Sometimes I wonder if
she birthed me at all, how else could one have such hatred for their child.
No one would
ever trust in it, but they still probably wouldn’t miss my plain face if I took
myself from this world. And the one that drove me to it, the only person I hope
it would effect, would be my once angelic mother; who now deserves no better
than six feet under. The worst part of it all is my father has left me here
with this. I suspect he unearthed the evil that he had married, and got the
hell out of here as fast as he could.
Hell, that’s
what I would do.
Except I’d take
my infant daughter with me, instead of leaving her in the clutches of satin.
Oh, father, into
your hands I would have commended my spirit. But you have forgotten me. Why
have you left me here to bask in the wake of her self-hatred? I wonder if he
remembers me, remembers my name.
But I know it’s
no use wishing.
His eyes are
oblivious me.
His thoughts has forgotten me.
And his heart
has forsaken me.
I’ve been down
here for a few hours now, my leg still broken and my mother still not having
returned. I’ve crawled to the run down couch in our basement and prop myself
up. I’m done, I’ve been done I just didn’t have a way out. But now I know that
I cannot escape her. If I get away, her memory still haunts me, her teachings
(more like tellings) will stay with me until death, I’ll forever be scarred.
Or she’ll kill
me, if I don’t kill myself first. I begin to cry with this thought. My leg is
still bent awkwardly, swelling up around the broken bones. It’s hurt for too
long now and I am numb, numb to my physical pain because my mental pain has
taken over. I hate myself, the girl she has made me become. Broken and scared
in my own home. I crawl to the bathroom, prop myself on the edge of the tub. I
turn it on and let it fill. I’m just taking a bath, nothing serious, I want to
still be pretty for her, my mother. I take a little blue bottle out of the
cabinet and swallow the dozen, or hundreds I don’t really know, baby blue
capsules inside. I close my eyes as I sink into the water. And as the warmth
begins the take hold, I think to myself that this is right.
My mother drove
me to this, my guardian angel.
I trust in my
self righteous suicide,
But I cry because some angels deserve to die.