Mommy Dearest

TW: attempted murder

Last nights compromising events has spun me into a vicious dilemma. I immediately wonder why my dad continues to work the night shift. It’s not fair that I’m the one left here as the oldest boy, to deal with my pack of unruly, disruptive siblings. I’m not even the oldest sibling, only the oldest boy. My older sister who carries the label of “oldest child” is anything but a leader. Her timid and spastic reactions push her into hiding in her room unable to effectively socialize with society. That leaves me to pick up the baton to continue the race for all of us so we can survive this childhood with as little casualties as possible. 

My mother’s behavior has increasingly become worse. It’s unpleasant at best but lately it’s downright dangerous. My mother is not a natural maternal creature. She must be missing that vital chromosome or link or brain chemical. I remember from my early years she was carefree and happy. We regularly had ice cream after dinner, and she always found new games for us to play. She loved to play and be silly. Nothing would dim her fire. Although I can’t say her fire is gone. No, it is blazing into a heated uproar. 

She would laugh at things like spills or muddy shoes when the other moms would scowl and chastise. I knew she wasn’t like all the other moms, but I remember feeling safe with her at least. That safety net has been lost at sea for quite some time and I fear there’s no ship in sight of returning it. My resentment for both of my parents continue to grow like the grass in our overgrown backyard. 

It’s a full-time job watching over my mother. There’s been an increasing number of broken dishes in the house. Her anger rages and boils up until it erupts into a smoldering mess that I cover up. This is not a job I want as a 17-year boy counting the days until I can leave this life behind me. But what about my siblings? I’ve carried this burden and effectively rewritten some of the truths for their benefit. I’m afraid I’ve disabled them, and a new reality will come rolling in like the tide. But tonight’s episode is inexcusable. I’m left with no choice.

I’m not sure if my dad doesn’t notice this alarming quality of my mothers or if he just ignores it like he does with everything else in the house. I wonder what it’s like being inside my dad’s head. No stress. No worries. He breezes through daily tasks and schedules with not one care in the world. Not that there’s nothing for him to worry about. On the contrary, there’s a tremendous amount of highly concerning behaviors and actions that should keep him up at night. Maybe his night shift factory job is where he does his worrying. This will now be his burden. I can no longer carry this load. It was never mine to carry and it has nearly broken my back. My heart was already broken a long time ago.

Pill bottles, a half empty glass of wine, and dirty Kleenexes adorn my mother’s nightstand.  She’s crying again tonight. I hear her muffled weeping from my room, so I climb out of bed and step into the hallway. This is how most of my nights go. I’m awaken by crying, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. This will later turn me into an insomniac for reasons I won’t be sure of until a therapy breath through in my mid 30’s. I peer through her slightly ajar door and see her take a small sip of her wine. Her long thin black her is snarled around her shoulders. Her wet tears have matted a clump to her face, and she smears it out of the way as she sips her wine.

“Mom?” I whisper as I barely rap my knuckles on the door.

She sniffs and chokes out a “yes honey?” with her raspy voice. I enter the room as she’s fumbling with a pack of cigarettes on her nightstand. Her chewed up nails digs one out and she clicks her lighter a few times until she’s successful. She takes a long thick drag as she rests her head back on the headboard. The stale stench of old and new smoke circles in the air. I head across the room and push open the window carefully. I watch as the white swirl of smoke escapes through the small crack like it can no longer stand her presence either. I feel bad for a moment.

“I heard you crying again. What happened this time?” The annoyance in my tone is not lost on her and she starts crying. She never really stopped in the first place. I sigh.

“You all are so ungrateful and just laugh at me! I can’t do anything right! No matter how hard I try, not a single one of you appreciates anything I do!” Her last words are garbled with moans and uneven breathing through the cries.

“Mom, you have to stop this. This has been going on more and more and we don’t know how to help you anymore. Why won’t you talk to anyone or at least…..”

Her arm raises and her wine glass is hurled at me. Wine covers my only clean t-shirt and the glass breaks at my feet. I’m not exactly shocked but I am too tired for this tonight. “Mom! Please! Calm down and let me help you.”

“Your father is never home, and I’m stuck feeding all these kids and taking care of everything!” she howls. “I’m done; you all can just figure it out without me!” It’s impressive how different her reality is from the rest of ours.

I catch her rummaging around in the covers grabbing at something. She takes out one of my father’s guns from under the pillow and she shoots it into the air. She is jolted back a little but still remains upright. A wild look overcomes her. Screams escape me from some place I wasn’t expecting. The bullet shot through the wall and a picture crashes to the ground. My siblings are running in, some screaming, some silent and wide eyed. As my mother’s gaze retreats to them, I jumped onto her and grab her wrists. We roll around a few times, locking arms and kicking legs. Time has stopped and is racing simultaneously. 

 “Mom, stop! Mom, stop!” I hear from several different voices.

Boom!

Another shot rang out and we both stop. We are a crumpled mess on her unmade floral bed. I start to feel a slow warm ooze coving my body. Everyone is screaming and crying and all I can hear is the clock ticking on the wall beside the open window.

**********

I’m sitting on the front porch as the sun peaks up behind the horizon. Its bright hope for a new day does not match the black veil that covers my heart. My dad will be coming home from work soon. I will have to tell him that I failed. I failed at something I never wanted to be doing in the first place. I now carry a bigger burden that I never asked for or ever thought was possible.   The world will keep turning as I sit here. It will also keep turning if I run too. I have no explanation for this horror story. Nothing I say will make it better. My presence will not change what my father is about to walk in on.

I will smoke one more of my mother’s last cigarettes as I ponder my dilemma. It’s not like she’ll be smoking them anymore anyway.