Everything You Gave [Meddison/MerAdd]

Self-Destruction

Meredith

Friday September 9th, 1994

"MEREDITH CATHERINE GREY! YOU HAD BETTER BE GETTING READY UP THERE! WE HAVE TO LEAVE FOR THE AIRPORT IN HALF AN HOUR," my mother bellows up the stairs.

I'm sitting locked in the bathroom, leaning against our ancient claw-foot tub, head in hands, with blood dripping from my left arm.

"MEREDITH," my mother bellows at my non-response. "I'M COMING UPSTAIRS, IF YOU'RE NOT READY YOU HAD BETTER—," continues my mother as I stop listening.

Suddenly, I'm snapped out of my temporary daze by the sound of my mother's approaching footsteps. I bolt upright and instantly feel dizzy from the blood loss.

'How much blood have I collectively lost over the last three weeks?' I wonder, not knowing the answer.

'Whatever, not like it matters. My mother hasn't even noticed,' I think as I glance over the many cuts that run up and down my pale and fragile-looking forearm.

"Whatever," I mutter, not sure who I'm talking to.

My mother pounds on the bathroom door and I jump.

'Jesus, Meredith, you're not on edge at all...' I think sarcastically, not at all caring.

"Meredith," calls my mother.

"Yes?!" I reply through gritted teeth.

"Are you getting ready? We have to leave for the airport in thirty minutes," my mother asks me for what seems like the thousandth time.

"Yes, mother," I answer, my voice laced with hurtful disdain.

"Meredith, don't you take that tone with me..." admonishes my mother.

"Whatever," I reply flippantly.

'Will she ever give me a break?' I wonder. 'Apparently I lack the ability to even get myself ready properly.'

I walk over to the door as I hear the sound of my mother's footsteps dissipating and slowly sink to the floor. I curl my knees up to my chest, not caring that I'm know getting blood all over myself and the bathroom. I put my head down as I try to hold back tears. The tears I've been trying (and failing) to ignore for the last three weeks. As the tears come, I slip into the painful memory of that fateful day. The one that once again reminded me that I am not wanted by my mother. That I was a mistake. That I am just a burden. That she'll never care about me the way I need her to.

3 weeks ago, Friday August 19, 1994

I come home from aimlessly walking around the nearby park in the overly-sticky humidity of the late-August heatwave to find a note written in what can only be called "doctor's scrawl" taped smack dab in the center of the big glass door that is the entrance to my house. It is written hastily in semi-dried out Sharpie and reads "Meredith—Be dressed and ready by six pm. Dress nicely please—none of your oversized nonsense. Make yourself presentable and for god sakes wear something with short sleeves! Be prompt. — Ellis." 

Cryptic notes are certainly not a mystery to me. In fact, they seem to be my main method of communication with my mother as of late. But going somewhere with her at such an early hour? Doesn't she have important surgeries? Why on earth is she taking me somewhere seemingly semi-formal so out of the blue? Confused, I unlock the door with a protesting creak, the humidity having warped the old oak doorframe. I set the note on the kitchen island, along with my keys and fill a cloudy-looking glass with water. Gulping down the water, utterly parched by my aimless jaunt, I continue to ponder my mother's note.