“You ruined my life!” my mother shrieks in my ear as I crane my neck away.
Tell me something I don’t know, I think to myself, clutching this crappy railing with both hands, hoping it’ll hold firm to the wall until she’s through with her violent fit. Thankfully, at eighteen, I’m stronger than she is. Finally. It wasn’t always that way, what with my mother only being in her late thirties. She started having kids early, very early, too frickin’ early. But now that I can hold my own, she’s resorting to more drastic means. I must say this one tops the dysfunction cake, too, even for her.
I only have to hold on a little bit longer.
Arms wrapped tightly around mine, she holds my body to hers, trying to shove me down the flight of stairs in our small townhouse. With my heels dug into the worn Berber carpet and the banister held in a death grip, I’m able to wait her out, letting her tire herself out until she gives up—hopefully.
She’s telling me what a mistake it was to have me, to give a child of her own flesh and blood a chance at life, and I can’t stop the eye roll begging to be released. Like that’s when her life took a turn. Right.
Her fourth marriage just imploded, much like the first three, and she’s looking for someone, anyone, to blame. Since she’s pushed almost everyone else in her life away, the blame falls solely on my shoulders. Again.
Unfortunately, this same song and dance happens about every month or so depending on how her romantic life is going. The problem is always different but the reason remains the same: me.
Just a little longer though.
Soon I’ll be out of this house, too. Then who will she blame all her misery on? My older sister, Kelsie, got off easy by choosing, from a young age, to live with her dad after the divorce. According to my mom, he’s the one that got away. Personally, I think she got pregnant at sixteen to trap him into marrying her in the first place. Alas, the marriage didn’t stick through thick and thin like she had hoped, but that hasn’t stopped her from pining after the delusion she sells herself.
I never had a choice though. In any of it. I didn’t choose to be born, especially not to a life like this, and living with my father was never an option. No, my mom got pregnant with me during a rebound one-night stand shortly after losing Kelsie and her dad. She’s resented me and the regrettable memories attached to that dark time everybody, including dear ol’ Daddy, would prefer to forget. Well, I can only assume since he’s been paying child support each and every month like a woman’s trusty menstruation cycle yet hasn’t bothered with contacting me even once over the years.
I swear that monthly check taunts me, too. Some days—like today—more than others. I mean his address is right there. Colorado. I’ve never reached out to him though. All too familiar with being unwanted, I don’t need one more reminder what a mistake I was.
The bite of nails on my wrist brings me back to the moment, and I clench my jaw. Things are getting worse. She’s getting worse. Last time, she threw a plate of food—delivery, of course, since my mom doesn’t cook—at me when her soon-to-be ex-husband didn’t come home for dinner. Before that it was a bottle of hair product lobbed at my head—which I dodged just in time, luckily, only to watch as it splattered against the wall, inches from my face.
Her grip loosens, arms crumpling like wet pieces of paper, allowing me to relax my grip a fraction. The cheap-ass wood from the banister has begun flaking off into my hands as she approaches the wind-down portion of today’s tantrum.
She’s sobbing uncontrollably now, and even though the angry streaks staining my hands give me pause, I don’t dare let go yet. She’s like a wild animal—one wrong move could spook her causing my ass to go tumbling down the stairwell.
These clothes, along with my body, will need to be thoroughly washed after this shit show is over. My mom’s perfume is incredibly strong from a healthy distance, like a football field, but with this close proximity I’m afraid the fragrance will seep in forever if I don’t scrub it off immediately. I shouldn’t say I hate anything about my own mother, but, on a list a mile long of things I strongly dislike about the woman, her overpowering floral perfume is high at the top. It almost makes me despise all flowers on principle alone. It’s like she uses it to mask the stench of desperation she’s constantly oozing. If only it worked that way.
Tiny droplets of sweat fall from her short wavy hair landing on my tense forearm as my feet work to stay rooted to the landing. Her waning exertion is finally taking its toll, and I count down the minutes until this is all over. And not just this, today—I mean all of it: the put downs, the physical attacks, the all-out psychological warfare my mother has become proficient in. How much is enough? When will it all end? And at what cost? Because with Rianne, there’s always a price.
Just a little longer.
Now she’s leaning her full weight on me in a childlike manner, leaving no doubt in my mind that the perfume has spread to my person from the heavy contact. Damn it. Slowly releasing the rail, I spin toward her—keeping my back to the wall rather than the empty stairwell—and wrap my arms around her thin, trembling frame.
The few steps to her bedroom feel like miles as I guide her inside. Her body shaking with sobs, she shuffles into bed before I tuck the blankets loosely around her. I can’t console her like she wants. Like she expects. That stopped a long time ago. All I can do now is weather the storm that’s sure to pass just as quickly as it blew in. I’m not the villain here and I refuse to be her victim. I’m just surviving until I can get the hell out of here.
With that thought, I grab the tweezers from the bathroom to remove the slivers that have embedded themselves in my palms knowing it’ll be easier than extracting myself from this hell hole when the time comes.
Just a little longer.
