Bam. Done.

Reads: 285  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 4

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
About a Girl whos mother is narsistic and she has a special unspesified disorder.

Submitted: October 20, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 20, 2015

A A A

A A A


Good Morning. You awake restless, feeling as if you haven’t slept in weeks. You haven’t. Your hair is a mess, the bags under your eyes are purple and bloated as bruises, hammered into your skull. A chill, like a spider, scurries down your back; the ghostly feel as each leg stabs into your spine. You roll over to your side, reaching to your bedside table, full of hair ties, pencils, and the month’s trash. Out of the corner of your eye, you spy a luke-warm glass of stale water; the one you carried up last night, spilling half of it when you stumbled up the stairs. Your mouth is dry as sand on a waterless beach. You imagine the water to be refreshing, like a cleansing crisp glass on a sweltering day. You creak up to take a sip, like a crooked, creaking rocking chair, stained deep with the years of withering stress. The excruciating pain in your spine echoes throughout your body, but the will to quench the thirst prevails over the pain. You lift the glass to your desperate, dehydrated lips. The displeasing gulp barely satisfies the thirst. A faint taste of decades old dust is left behind in your mouth. Feeling unsatisfied, you abandon the glass dispassionately on the bedside table, amongst the framed photos of family, filled with fading happiness. You pat down your sides, frantically searching for your phone. 12 text messages. 3 Instagram notifications. A fraction of the usual onslaught. After a groaning sigh, the routine sets in: Get up, shower, cry, outfit, hair, makeup, practice smiling, fall down the stairs, breakfast. Bam. Done.
You sleep the morning through, or at least you think. Its hard to remember if you were awake and the classes were dull as a dinner plate, or if you really were passed out. It’s 11:47am. The lunch bell rings and the morning is wasted. You make your way to the washroom, hesitant to go in, making sure its unoccupied. You gaze into your dark and saddened eyes; a gentle tear cuts loose from the corner of your eye and trickles down your mask. Smiling hurts. You gently massage your cheeks and the corner of your lips, where your jaw aches, as if you were laughing too hard. You wish. Its 2:55pm. The bell rings and the afternoon is wasted. The routine sets in: Bag, bus, cigarette, home. Bam. Done.
You fall through the door, with the grace of an awkward baby giraffe, and elegantly flick your bag off your wrist. It sails across the room and lands in a perfect spot on the bench by the front entrance. Shoes off, hoodie off. Sweatpants on, sweater on. Tea in hand, big sigh, chill time.  Your mask is washed away, and the usual sadness that lives beneath is relinquished. Its Friday. You go up to your room and make yourself snug in your blanket’s embrace, tight and secure like an old friend. You’ve never been happier to see your bed before. You open your laptop and sign into Netflix, drowning out the world. Its 5:00pm. Mom walks through the door. Your heart palpitates and you panic a little, getting up to make sure the door to your room is locked. It is. You smile and go back to your own pleasant retreat. You wake up. There’s a grid embossed in your cheek from where you fell asleep on the laptop. Naturally, you pat down your sides, frantically searching for your phone. 2 text messages. They read,
“I’ll be there at 10:30”
“does your mom actually take drugs?”
You roll your eyes as if he could witness the sarcasm.
“lol no they're sleeping meds. don’t worry, she’ll be out like a light by 10:00. I'm so excited to finally meet you!”
Suddenly the silence is enriched by a reverberent voice, emanating from somewhere downstairs.
“Dinner is ready!”
You're not really hungry, but adhere to the social construct of making an appearance. You need to keep the peace after all, if you’ll convince your mom on letting you out tonight. Not like it makes a difference. You’ll be there either way.
“Hey honey, how was your day?”
“It was fine, thanks.”
“Do you have any homework over the weekend?”
“Nope.”
She sneers at you with a raised eyebrow.
“…How come you never have any homework?”
“I dunno. I usually finish it in class.”
She takes a bite of her pasta, and a sip of the water, smacking her lips perpetually. Your nerves tense, and you try to assemble the words to ask her in your head, but the question is an impossible puzzle. All the pieces flow out at once.
“So…um… I was thinking about going out tonight? Do you think that’s good? I mean, like do you think that’s okay?”
She c***s her head and gives you that “hell no” look. The anxiety is nibbling at your toes.
“We’ll see.”, She says.
“Okay, but I kind of need to know because they're making plans.”
“It’s been three days since you cleaned your room.”
“It’s not that messy. I don't understand why it matters like, it’s my room not yours.”
You feel the anxiety crawling up your legs, like a swarm of insects.
“Excuse me? This is my house. Keeping your room clean is on the contract you signed to live with us. Do you need me to remind you who took the trash out this morning? That was on the contract too. I left it by the door for you to take out on your way to school. It doesn’t have to make sense. I'm the mom, and this is my house.”
The anxiety is now running through your veins like a happy puppy, bounding through your boiling blood.
“Fine. I’m going to my room now.”, You say, trying to leave before your core snaps.
“Yep, go ahead. Avoid the problem like you always do. I can’t live with you like this.  Maybe its time for you to start looking for another place to stay.”
You slam your door. The frame moves out another millimeter. It’s almost off the hinges now. Another diplomatic mission laid to waste. You count the minutes until you hear her go to sleep.
It’s 10:22pm. You hear her sheets stop ruffling around through the paper thin walls. You have eight minutes before he pulls up. The routine sets in: Shower, cry, outfit, hair, makeup, practice smiling, (try not to fall down the stairs this time), and sit by the kitchen window. Bam. Done.
Your phone vibrates, extinguishing the deathly silence, and you jump in your seat. He’s here. Time to move. Every noise your feet make against the hardwood floors play like a symphony of nerves, conducting all the notes of grinding teeth, tension, and fear . Two minutes pass by. You’ve reached the front door. You extend your hand reluctantly, but determined. This is where the night is won or lost. The creaking latch is your final battle. You grab the knob. Your teeth grind and your jaw clenches. Your stomach drops. You twist the knob and the latch lets go like the pin of a grenade. Three….two….one…open. The door creaks and screams like a tortured beast. You hold your breath. Absolute impeccable silence. She didn’t wake up.
You're at the party now, surrounded by twisting figures of human forms, lights flashing, music blaring, senses overloading. You're snapped out of your musical limbo. Two drunken boys appeared beside you, obviously from the entourage outside the private room. You know them both, one better than the other. They’re both tall and handsome, one more handsome than the other. They’re both the same age, 19, a few years older than me, and it shows well on their chiseled jaws and impeccable bone structure. The handsomer one sits beside you, the virulent stench of vodka out of his lips, and places his arm around your shoulder. The touch scares you, and you feel like a bit of you crumples down inside. His eyes are blue and soft but his gaze is piercing. A silencing stare.
You try to imagine that the affability is only a side effect of the alcohol, which it most certainly is. The way he leans into you and sways back and forth. The initial touch seemed to last a lifetime, but when it was over it was only two seconds long. You feel an incredible weight off your shoulder. Like some part of you has been sucked out through his arm. You feel frail and weak like a bag of bones.
You are shaking ever so slightly, but his arm is warm. You feel safe even though you barely know him. You’ve never once gotten this close before. It felt forbidden, but how could something so taboo be so soothing? All he does is look at you, with an empty awe-full stare like he has seen a ghost, or maybe an angel right in front of is eyes. His friend comes back with an innocuous white capped orange bottle.
Your trance is interrupted by a drunken voice, and you are left feeling awkward and stripped of emotion as your lips retract from the handsome boys’.
“Y’all stop making out haha! the real party has arrived”, he says swaying back and forth like a sapling in the breeze, obviously intoxicated past stability. He pushes the little bottle into your chest and says foolishly, “Here take a few of these they’ll knock you out”. You look at him reluctantly, then at the bottle. Sensing that you are hesitant to take the medication, he fumbles with the childproof cap, as inept as a toddler, but manages to liberate a few tablets. “They’re just like the pills your mom takes. They're fun when you're drinking trust me.”.
You swallow the pills, 4 or 5 of them. No water or anything. You feel the dry tablets struggle their way down your throat. It feels like you swallow a lump. Like you have an egg stuck in your throat.
Both of them are drunker than you’ve ever seen anyone before. They stumble like their legs are made of rubber and the floor made of marbles, grasping and flailing desperately at anything that can help them stay upright; doorknobs, the vase on the kitchen counter, even the air around them. The two clownish figures disappear behind the frosted glass door leading outside, and you can see their silhouettes laughing and screaming as they parade about, like in an endless dream, hazy and vague. Vaguely human.
Your heart falls into your stomach and you feel heavy again. You are alone in the private room. The greyish haze and the ringing from the riot outside amplifies in your head, and gets louder and louder the way two microphones shriek when held together. Your throat becomes tight and dry, and you need a drink, but your stomach isn’t there. As If there is no bulge where your stomach starts, and your tight narrow throat just snakes from your mouth through your torso. You are empty. Completely filled to the top with nothing. You look at your hand, focusing on it. Everything in the background becomes a blur behind your shaking fingers. Your abdomen contracts violently. You feel sick.
You head to the couch. As you trudge across the room, your feet fall to the bottom of the steps, and past the bottom, inside the floor and through the ground. You lurch and crawl up the stairway, your body hunched over, your arms spread down so your fingers drag on the floor, which seems to go on forever. I collapse, leaning my head against the wall. A cacophony of confusion erupts from the empty blackness of your head, and it creates waves of pain that echo through your body, like you are being pounded by a rubber mallet. You have to crawl to the couch on all fours like a hideous beast, grumbling and moaning. Then darkness. Nothing. All of your nightmares are obscured, as by a shining brainless beacon. A blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world. you are calm and joyful, and finally entirely alone.
You’re in a bed now, You can’t move. You have the weight of a thousand red hot suns on your chest, and your arms, and legs, and fingertips. A weight so immense that you can’t even flex a muscle in defiance. You are relaxed. You are paralyzed. Paralyzed, being held down, naked in the dark, the pale moonlight barely illuminating his handsome face. Your arms; where are they? useless and limp like dead vulgar growths sprouting from your sides. Where are your legs? They’re spread in the air, but you can’t feel them, you can only see them. you have no body, you have no shape or form. A disembodied spirit. All you feel is weight. You can’t move, You can’t try. You can’t feel, or scream, or cry. You’re a corpse, as weak as a child, innocent as a lamb, being slain by his blade.
Your body awakes. Your insides wrench and squeeze. It hurts, but the pain is liberating. The pain frees you from the void, and it fills your infinite empty blackness. He fills you with his loving agony. You feel past his beautiful silencing stare. You feel past the pain and the torture. You feel his arms around you, and you feel safe. Your eyes are drenched. You can feel again.
I’m awake restless, feeling like I haven’t slept in weeks. My hair is a mess, the bags under my eyes are purple and bloated as bruises. A chill, like a spider, scurries down my back; the ghostly feel as each leg stabs into my spine. My routine sets in: I roll over to my side, reaching to my bedside table. There is no bedside table. Just him. Bam. Done.

 

 

 
 

© 2015 Samantha Page

 


© Copyright 2020 Samantha Page. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Comments