Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I run upstairs, grabbing the key off the hook on my way up and I lock my bedroom door from the inside to delay the telling off and beating I’ll get. She has another key, she’s organized, but at least I can vent in my diary while she fetches it.
I scribble on the pages, cussword after cussword, capitals and lower case. I press so hard I dig through the paper in some places, leaving gouges in the blank sheet beneath.
“You open this door right now,” Mee-maw demands, hammering it with her fist. “Where are my eggs?”
Throwing my diary across the room, I stomp to the door, twist the key and swing it open so hard it bounces off my desk behind it.
“All over my fucking body!” I scream at her, unable to control my temper. “NOW LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I slam the door in her astonished face and mentally prepare myself for the slipper. But instead she walks away and the beating doesn’t come. Instead, an hour later she brings me a glass of warm milk and a small slice of the cake she baked. She must have gotten more eggs from somewhere.
We don’t talk about what happened and for that I’m relieved. Every time I think about it I cry. If I talk about it, I’ll only cry harder.
She does however impart some wisdom on me. Wisdom I’ll never forget.
“Unassuming girls don’t get hurt.”
I wanted to disagree and reply that strong girls don’t get hurt. That’s why I’m hurt, it has nothing to do with how I look and everything to do with how weak I am. But instead I just cried again and trembled and she stroked my hair with tenderness and love.
26 years old
I don’t know what made me come here. I never got the urge before but seeing the two-story home that I grew up in, riddled with weeds and dirty shutters hanging from the windows, scratched and flaking paint, the porch swing is broken too, it satisfies me in some deep and disturbed way.
I guess after Mee-maw lost Grandpa and then me, she stopped looking after the place and herself.
I want to spit on the ground but instead I approach the door and open it. It’s a mess from the wake. Mom is alone, cleaning up plates and cups, sniffling like she has a right to mourn the mother who abused her as badly as she abused me.
She looks up with familiar, sad eyes and drops the trash bag. When she moves to me, looking for comfort I sidestep out of the way. I’ll never forgive her for what she did, or more aptly, didn’t do.
She looks solemn and defeated and goes back to her cleaning. “It’s late. Are you staying? I thought you’d be halfway back to your life of grandeur by now.”
“I’m not staying, I’m just waiting for my car to be fixed.” I sniff dryly, there’s too much dust in here. Mom could have cleaned before she hosted people but she always was a lazy bitch. “You look like shit. You need a better surgeon. He’s butchered your face.”
“You’re such a bitch.”
“Gotta be raised with love to know how to display love,” I retort, looking at her ballooned cheeks and eyebrows which are uneven from botched Botox. “Was a life of filling yourself with plastic more fulfilling than being a good mother to me and Matthew?”
She starts to wail, dropping to her knees like a class A actress.
“Oh go pop a Xanax,” I snap at her, grabbing the bag and making myself useful.
“You’re so mean.”
I laugh coldly. “It’s how I was raised, but then you know that better than anyone.”
She picks herself up and we work side by side to get the old cunt’s house back to near pristine. It takes another hour and I know my car isn’t going to be fixed until tomorrow. I brought it on myself by spraying Kane in the eyes. I’m not sorry. He deserved it.
“Hungry?” Mom asks, pointing her thumb towards the kitchen. “There’s so much food left.”
I head that way and start tearing through the wrapped containers and dishes. That’s the only good thing I remember about my childhood, the food.
We tuck into everything, digging forks and spoons into each dish. Mixing pie with casserole and potatoes, then blending the desserts in our stomachs until we can’t eat another bite.
There’s a loud knock at the door. I’d know that knock anywhere.
Rolling my eyes I nod towards the entrance hall and demand harshly, “Be a good mother and get rid of him.”
“Who?” she questions, eyes round with intrigue.
“Who do you think?”
Her lips form a circle. “Kane? Is that Kane Jessop?”
I nod.
“How can you tell?”
“I just can. Now please go tell him I ain’t here.”
“Can’t,” she responds, looking at a spot above my shoulder. She points there with the spoon in her hand and I sigh while turning slowly. Of course he’s not just going to stop at the front door.