This Is Not a Tragedy

10 | Given Up On

Monday, June 11, 2007

"Natsu." My mother opens my bedroom door and looks surprised to see me awake, reading in bed.

"I just woke up," I lie. Not feeling tired, I wasn't able to sleep, so instead spent the night reading―with a small book light since my mother would notice my lamp on.

"Oh, well, go to school."

My eyes shoot up. "What?" I can't leave her alone. Although, after yesterday's failed breakfast, she was quiet and didn't start any of her destructive behaviors like drinking or cutting, I can't let my guard down. "I'll stay home."

"You can't," she says, expression calm. "You need to go to school."

The truth is, I wouldn't have gone to high school, to begin with, if I had a choice. It's not compulsory in Japan, but it's what was expected of me, so I did it. It's expected of me to go to school. It's expected of me to take care of my mother. It's expected of me to forgive her every time she promises to change. And I've done it all because I'll lose everything if I don't―including myself.

I can't tell what the safest thing to do is. She might do something while I'm gone. But what if she's genuinely as okay as she seems and my refusal to go is what sets her off?

"Didn't you say you'd be good?"

I recall her words from when she returned: "I'll be good if Natsu is good." Does that mean if I follow her orders, she'll be okay?

"Go to school, okay?"

Still reluctant, I obey.

"I'm home," I call in the afternoon, kicking my shoes off in the genkan. When I reach the living area doorway, I notice the TV isn't on. My mother isn't in there on the computer. She isn't in the kitchen either. I climb the stairs, two at a time, and notice her bedroom door is open. After peeking inside, I determine it's also empty. Maybe the bathroom or toilet? I race back downstairs to see if the door to either is closed. The bathroom door is, and I knock. "Mom."

...No answer.

I try again, knocking and speaking louder and with more force. "Mom."

Nothing.

I open the door to the sink area and step up to the glass one before the bath area. "Mom?"

Silence.

As I reach for the handle, I realize my hand is shaking. Please be out shopping, I pray.

I slide the door open.

And freeze. A chill runs through my body, and my skin prickles like it's being stabbed with needles. My legs take some jerky steps closer. Move faster.

I reach my mother's body and claw at the towel around her neck, trying to free her windpipe. It rips easily, and as her body falls into my arms, limp yet stiff, my legs turn weak as well. We slide to the floor.

Shit. No.

The tearing sound of the towel replays in my head, my mind crumbling.

This can't be happening.

Faster! Check her pulse.

But my body doesn't move. It just sits and trembles, breaking out into a cold sweat as it holds her weight.

She might still be alive! Check!

I lie her down on the floor. My shaky fingers reach towards her neck, and I feel around, praying for―longing for the sensation of life to meet my fingertips.

Nothing meets them except cold, still skin.

I try her wrist, but it's the same thing. Ironically, my own heart is pumping harder than it ever has. It pounds against my ribs and blasts in my ears. My breathing goes shallow. When I release her wrist, her hand falls back to the floor with a soft smack.