Love on a White Island

~ One ~

"Mom, you have to eat. You can't keep going on eating saltine crackers and drinking cranberry juice cocktail. It's not good for you." I reached over to the dresser snug into the corner of my mother's room. I grabbed a few napkins off of the top of the neat stack. My mother scoffed.

"I'm not eating that, Erica. I told you I'm not eating anything you cook me." My mother crossed her arms and turned her head away from me as a response of her retaliation.

"Mom, please. You need to eat." I started wiping off the French dressing that made its way onto my arms and neck. My mother never seemed to understand that she wasn't supposed to throw temper tantrums when she couldn't get her way.

"I am. Not eating. Anything you cook, Erica," my mother said, saying my name through clenched teeth. I continued to wipe salad dressing off of my skin and my clothes. I stood up and began to wipe it off of my khaki shorts.

"Okay, Mom. Whatever you say." I sighed, throwing the napkins away in the small trash can tucked between her bed and her nightstand. I picked up the tray that had contained her lunch. A medium and small bowl were scattered across the floor. It was supposed to be a nice garden salad topped with my mom's favorite dressing and sided with a small bowl of fruit that also contained her favorites: strawberries, bananas, and blueberries. Instead, it was a delicious meal to the small army of ants that visited our house every now and then. Setting the tray on my chair, I began placing the shunned meals into their respective bowls.

"When are you going to get a job, Erica? The bills won't get paid with just my disability check." I could tell her head was still turned to the other side of her room. She wouldn't look at me.

"I can't get a job yet, Mom. I don't have my GED. Remember? I" —I took a deep breath—"I dropped out."

"Senior year. I know. You won't let me forget it. Every time I see your face, hear your voice, say your name, I can never forget how much of a disappointment you've made of yourself." I heard her bed creak, signaling she was moving around. I assumed she rolled onto her side. "Finish cleaning up and get out of my room. I'm sick of your presence."

In silence, I cleaned up the rest of the mess and hurried out of the room. Her voice sounded so dry and resentful. She really, really disliked me.

She hates me.

And she will never allow me to forget it.

⋅•⋅⊰ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⊱⋅•⋅

I hurried to the library as the rain continued to pour, quite literally showering me in its not-so-sweet smell. I forgot to grab the umbrella as a result of rushing out of the house so I didn't miss my test. I couldn't let a year of studying for my GED (even though I didn't particularly need it) go to waste because my mother wouldn't stop fussing over replacing her cranberry juice cocktail with water and cherry pomegranate Crystal Light. You're 19 and jobless, she would say, as if she wasn't the reason I was jobless.

I hate her.

But only sometimes.

I quickly walked into the building, hearing the squishing of my soaked socks make contact with the bottom of my boots. I mouthed an apology to Mr. Boyde, one of the librarians. He pointed to the back of the library. "Your test is set up on computer number nine. Mrs. Boyde should be there to help you get settled," he whispered.

I thanked him quietly and scurried to the back of the library. It wasn't even close to occupied. If anything, there was the occasional introvert or two skimming through the shelves full of fantasy and thriller novels to find something new to fill the empty void in their lives. I used to be like that; a quiet, good girl who always had her nose in a new sci-fi novel. Not anymore, I guess.