Atticus

A little more of chapter 7

It takes exactly thirteen steps to walk from one side of my room to the other. I feel like a caged animal, waiting for someone to open the trapdoor so I can bolt and never look back. I'm fully aware that I may not sleep tonight, trying to piece together what happened in that house. I assume it's what a caffeine overdose feels like when the anxiety sets in. Only time will fix it. But there has to be some kind of reasonable explanation why I basically passed out for almost nine hours. It scares me that I have an intense yearning to go back. Maybe I'm having some kind of psychotic or bipolar breakdown? The only thing missing is a straightjacket and a thread of drool hanging from my mouth.

It's quite possible this last move has finally broken me. I'm already living the life of a gypsy because no matter where we end up, no place ever feels like home. It's borderline torture living with a mother who doesn't remotely act like one. Lately, everything sets her off and her red-hot temper is getting worse. The constant abuse she puts her body through can't be helping, either.

Sometimes I think I'm a bad person for hating her, but the truth is, I actually don't hate her at all. I hate what she's become. She contradicts everything a mother should be and now she's merely surviving. Mom's never been a nurturer and she has no mercy for weakness, but as strange as it sounds, those two things have become her strengths. I just hope she uses them when she finds her next guy. But that might be wishful thinking. It's true what they say about old dogs and new tricks.

I have less than five hours before school starts. I wasn't planning on staying up all night, but I don't think I have a choice. Before I lose my mind, I need to occupy my brain and try to relax while I still have some time. Besides, I have all day tomorrow to be freaked out.

Thankfully, I have a stack of Jane Austen books on my dresser. I reach for Pride and Prejudice because it's my favorite. I've read it at least ten times and it never fails to take me to another place. And, no matter where I begin, Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet eventually end up together and live happily ever after.

I'm about to climb in bed when I realize I'm still in the clothes I wore to school, so I undress and put on my favorite oversized t-shirt. I almost forgot how much comfort this old thing gives me. Especially now. It belonged to my father and was one of the few things he left behind. I've treasured it all this time and have probably given it more sentimental value than it's worth. I thought for sure my dad would want it back and the first year after he left, I held out hope that he would. At the time, I didn't realize it was me he should have come back for, not some random piece of clothing. Eventually, that fantasy was replaced with reality. He's never coming back. All I have is this dumb t-shirt. It's riddled with holes from too many washings but that doesn't matter. It knows all my secrets and holds so many tears and as silly as it sounds, it somehow represents home, even when it never feels like I have one.

~~

The alarm goes off and I wake up in the same position I was in when I got into bed. I don't remember falling asleep or dreaming at all. My book is open on my chest, but it's like I woke up from a black hole of nothing.

Shrugging it off, I pull my body of out bed and make my way to the mirror. The first thing I notice is Mom's handprint on my face. It's not nearly as red as it was last night, but it's still slightly warm to the touch and definitely noticeable. Fortunately, I've become a master at applying concealer and I can make almost any mark disappear. Hopefully no one will notice. But, to be safe, I should definitely wear my hair down.

Swiping a dab of foundation on my cheek, I blend it in, trying not to press too hard. The bruise is deep and will take a while to go away. Mom still has a wicked right hook, even dead drunk.

I shake away the growing pity party. It's a waste of time to feel sorry for myself. I'm like Mom in that way because after she divorced Dad, it toughened her up. She never dwelled on the fact that he cheated on her and couldn't support us. She simply moved on and didn't talk about him. She can totally turn it off when she needs to and I admire that about her. I'm the only one who sees the internal wounds left behind.

I'm pretty sure a few of Mom's biggest scars came from a guy named Russ. She met him right after the divorce so technically he was the rebound guy. Mom had been waiting tables at a local dive while we were living in East Texas and unfortunately, he moved in with us after only a couple of weeks. Even at thirteen, I could tell he was an abusive alcoholic. But all Mom wanted to do was make him happy, so she started drinking with him. It worked for a while because he had a drinking buddy and free rent. I'm pretty sure he knew I saw through him, so he steered clear of me. When he became verbally and physically abusive towards her, it was as if Mom lost all self-worth. She was suddenly an insecure teenager who only liked the guy who treated her like shit.

Several times it got so bad Mom had to call the police, and if she didn't, the neighbors would. Russ ended up spending a night or two in jail but Mom would always take him back, never pressing charges to keep him away for good.

After his fifth arrest for assault, the cop at our door pulled Mom aside. I'll never forget watching his face change when he saw me sitting in the corner with my legs to my chest. A look of disgust washed over his features and then he turned back to Mom and said, "Lady, if you keep putting up with this, then you're the sick one." The blank stare on her face made me think he was just talking to deaf ears but for some reason—or miracle, I'm not quite sure—Mom finally listened to that cop. Thank goodness. I might've been next.

From that point on, I knew Mom kept her demons close, but now her tough, independent nature has been replaced with anger and doing almost anything, like finding drinking buddies at work or taking extra shifts, not to feel alone. Even keeping me around. She clearly doesn't want me anymore but I guess someone is better than no one.

I take one more look at myself in the mirror before heading out, satisfied with how well I've concealed the mark of drunken fury. Thankfully she's still in her room, but I know she's awake. Smoke is beginning to cloud up the entire house even though her door is closed. I don't dare disturb her so I shut the front door as quietly as humanly possible. I almost don't need an alarm clock when I've got smoke reeking up the place. She's one step away from setting off the smoke detector.

The second I step outside the humidity hits me like a brick wall and I wonder why I even bothered doing my hair. It's September, how the hell can it be this cool yet be so freaking humid at the same time?

Frustrated, I gather it to one side, accidently touching the bruise on my cheek and catching whiff of my sleeve. The cigarette smell isn't as strong as the apartment, but it's still there. Reaching into my backpack, I duck behind a parked car and look both ways. No one's around so I pull out a small bottle of watered down peach body spray I keep with me when I can find it on sale at the store. Taking one more look both ways I douse myself, practically using half of the bottle before slipping it back in a side pocket.

At least today I won't smell like an ashtray.

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