Burnt Noodles

This is about a child who carried on her mother's legacy of insanity and disturbed mental health.

The day had come, I was ready to demonstrate my ability to ‘cook’ to my mother. I lived alone with my mom. I’d always taken care of her, as she was usually unable to take care of herself. A few nights ago, she made noodles for dinner. I watched her very closely to see what she’d done. But not too close, as I knew I’d get a beating if I was in her way, or if she even caught me looking at her wrong. I sat on the couch, pretending to watch the tv, but really watching my mom’s every move. Today, I’d told her I would make our noodles. I rode the bus home from school, examining the bruises on my arm, knowing I’d get more if I fucked up. A few kids on the bus watched me look at my arms. They were looking at my arms as well. I knew one of them had actually tried to sit with me and ask questions, but I had told them I didn’t feel comfortable sitting with people I didn’t know.

I noticed a few of my teachers looking at me, watching me each day. Especially when I wore short sleeve t-shirts. None of them ever said anything about the bruises though. Finally it was my stop. I got off the bus and walked down my driveway, readying myself for what I was about to do. When I got home I called out hello to my mom and headed to the kitchen. “Making noodles, eh, Layla?” my mom asked. Her words were slurred; she was very drunk. I looked at her for a moment, I was done with her and her shit. Ready. “Yes ma’am,” I answered her. She nodded. “Then get your ass to cooking, you lazy bitch. I’m fucking hungry.” I continued looking at the back of her head for a moment. Then I answered, “Yes ma’am.” I turned around to the stove and put on a few cups of water to boil. Then I got out the ramen noodles. When the water was boiling, I put in the noodles and stirred them around a bit, as my mom had done before. I kept stirring the noodles, staring at them, but not really focused. I added just a tiny bit of salt to the water.

Once they were done enough, I put in the spices, and sriracha sauce. I knew my mom liked spicy noodles. But then, I let the noodles burn a little to the bottom of the pan, as I went into my mom’s room and grabbed her pistol from the top of her closet. This gun was illegally in her possession anyways.I saw no reason why I couldn’t use it real quick. I tucked the gun into the waist of my pants, paused, and then I went back into the kitchen. I put some salt and pepper in the pockets of my jacket, and also some garlic powder. Then I took the pan off the stove and turned around, looking once more at the back of my mom’s head. I glared dangerously, but still ready to turn quickly in case mother turned around. “Hurry the fuck up Layla! I’m fucking hungry, bitch!” I glared even harder. I walked around the back of the couch to the front, still holding the pan, and stood in front of the TV. I’d noticed a few seconds before, that my mom was watching a crime documentary. One about a mother who was killed by their kids. I smiled very slightly. “Get the fuck outta my way Layla! Why the fuck do you still have that pot in your hand, you little bitch?!” I stared calmly at her, the glare gone from my face, along with the smile.. “Here’s your noodles, mom. I hope you like them. I made them special just for you.” Then I threw the still hot water and all the noodles out of the pan right onto my mom. “AHH! YOU MOTHER FUCKING BITCH! I’M GONNA KILL YOU YOU MOTHER FUCKER!” My mom held her face and began getting up off the couch. I pushed her back down and took out the salt, taking off the cap and pouring the whole bottle out onto her. Then I did the same with the pepper and the garlic powder. “I’M GONNA KILL YOU! YOU’RE A MOTHERFUCKING BITCH!” I smiled slightly. “No, you won’t, mom. I’m gonna kill you.” I pulled out the gun from my waistband and pointed it directly at her head. “You won't, you little bitch. You’re a pussy. You won’t.” I stared her down. “Try me, mother.” I pulled the trigger. She was dead instantly. I smiled, finally free from my burden of a mother.

I went out to the side yard shed, and paused. I thought for a moment. Then I made my choice, and grabbed the gas can from it. I sat on the porch for a minute, and thought. I was shaking from the adrenaline rush. It was a wonderful high. I’d finally escaped from the bruises and cuts, and the mental and emotional abuse. I felt free. “I’M MOTHERFUCKING FREE! I’M FREE!” I screamed into the air. Then I whispered, “I’m free. I’m finally free.” I set the gas can down; I was holding it so tightly my knuckles had turned white. I stood up and punch the wood beam that held up my flimsy porch roof. With each punch I yelled “I’m free!” I stopped when my knuckles had turned bloody. Finally, I grabbed the gas can and went inside. I doused my entire house with it, throwing gasoline everywhere. When I was ready, I grabbed a match and striked it alive on the side of the matchbox. I stared at it for a moment. Then I flicked it out in front of me, as I stood in the middle of the living room. A few moments later, I quickly grabbed the gun back from my waistband, and pointed it at my own head. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the heat of the large flames. “I’m done, motherfucker.” Then I opened my eyes, and pulled the trigger.