Jasmine
Travis sleeps beside me and I watch him. I really like him. I want to shake him and tell him that, but I won't.
I sigh, reflexively reaching for something to drink. I shouldn't do that. I should be better, on account of the children.
Heh. Not really. I should be better, on account of myself but...I guess I need an excuse more compelling than that.
I get up, and briefly wonder about Wes, making a note to call her at a decent hour. It's about 12 now, I don't want to disturb her.
Only an asshole—
There's a knock at my door. I nod. Why did I jinx myself. I know who it is, by the way that she knocks, which is why I dread the short walk to my door.
And I ask myself, why the fuck I've even opening it.
But she stands in front of me, proud as always. An absolute mess as always.
"Your father is spending some time alone," she informs, stepping in without invitation. "Your hair is a mess."
Of course.
"Hello to you too, Mother. This is a socially unacceptable hour to show up in unannounced."
She says nothing, but looks about my place with disdain, her eyes sweeping over the few things out of place. So I pour myself a glass of wine, and settle in.
"I'll be here for a few days," she says.
I clench my jaw.
"Who's shoes are those?" She continues. "And this place is filthy—"
"I'm going to bed mother," I stand.
"Don't you have a guest room? What about some blankets? My god, why is it freezing in here,"
I close my eyes, taking the bottle with me. "Good night, Mother."
"I told you about that alcohol. Makes you fat."
I pause, laughing.
She narrows her eyes, shaking her head. "Shameful, child. How pitiful."
Me? Me, pitiful? Me? Didn't her husband kick her out of her home? I swallow back the many hurtful words I could say.
Because hurting her only hurts me. Learned that the hard way.
"When will you get married? You're not getting any younger you know? You've already lost your figure—"
"Stop. Just stop. You can't come in here and insult me, why would you even do that? Where's a greeting, a hello, Jasmine, I haven't seen you in a while, Jasmine, are you doing okay, Jasmine?"
"Oh of course you're not doing okay. You look a mess, this place is a mess and you reek of alcohol."
I swallow. "Do you know why I reek of alcohol? Because I'm an alcoholic. Do you know why I'm an alcoholic?" I turn around, pursing my lips.
"Because you've always done the opposite of what I say—"
"Because of you! It's because. Almost everything wrong with my life is because of you! And then, you have a nerve to criticize it!"
She shrugs. "You can blame me for your faults all day, girl. That doesn't make you less miserable."
I nod. "Maybe not. But you know what? You've been in a loveless marriage for forty years, and the only joy you get is from tearing down your daughter so I may be miserable but at least I'm not that pitiful," I spit.
She looks me over, with a frown. "You always have to play the victim. I just got here. If you're going to be so rude, you might as well go to bed."
My fist clenched, and my stomach twists. There's so much fury in me and every time she does this I want explode. I don't know how I love. How do I live?
I laugh. "You know something? You're disgusting. You always have been. And whenever I try with you, you show me why I shouldn't."
"You're so disrespectful. When I was your age I would've gotten smacked for such language. Be thankful."
Thankful? How dare she ask me to be grateful for the struggles she pushed on me—
"Oh? Thank you. Thank you for not physically abusing me. The bare fucking minimum. Congrats."
"You always bring the past up, Jasmine. But look. You're sitting in...dirty apartment, but it's yours. You have a job—"
"And a crippling addiction! Did you forget that?"
She shrugs. "I did the best I could," she looks away. "I did the best I could."
I shake my head. "You know what, it's not enough! And I feel bad, I hate that it hurts me to say this but—it wasn't enough! Your best wasn't enough okay? If your best was selling me to a pedophile if your best was telling me I wasn't good enough or white enough—it's not enough!"
I shrug. "So sorry." I hate this. I hate that I'm crying and she just stands there. So content. She can't even admit it was wrong.
If would just say she was wrong I...
I look away. "Just leave. Just go, Mother."
She stands. "You'll understand when you're a mother."
I scoff. "I have been. Twice. And I would never, ever in my life treat my children the way you have. But you don't even know that. You don't know that because...you're not a mother."
"You birthed me to be a trophy. I would rather abort every child until I can bear no more children than raise them like you raised me."
She pauses, but is always nonplussed. Nothing I saw reaches her. No amount of pain, no amount of shouting of crying and screaming—
Because I don't matter. And I hate that no matter how old I get...that will always hurt me.
