Bitter & Sweet

1. Pilot

Eliza hands me a notebook and pencil,
nods —signaling for me to write
down what I'm feeling.
I take the pencil from her and write, fucked.

~

7 days earlier...

"Eleanor, would you for God's sake eat something." My mom's waiting impatiently at the kitchen table, taking a look at her watch.
I stare blankly at my plate for a moment and force down a bite, hoping she'll be pleased enough to leave me be.
Ever since she started picking up signs or as she loves to call it "my cry for help" — she wanted to make sure that I'd eat something every morning before she left for work.
My mother is dearly mistaken, I don't cry for help, I'd much rather prefer dealing with this alone. It would save us both a lot of unappreciated effort.

My mom is Evelyn Sawyer. She left an abusive douche six months ago and works all day — till the sun goes down at Roadside Motel as an underpaid maiden.
She may not be the best rolmodel as a mother, but she is for sure the strongest person I can think of.
And maybe if life had been kinder to her, she'd have the mental strength to be a better mother.

I look at my mom and raise an eyebrow. "Satisfied?"
My mom sighs and says, "I don't have the time for this." Which let's be honest, she never has.
"I left 50 bucks on the counter for tonight, but I want you to buy groceries with it too so do not spend it where not needed. Grocery list is on the fridge." With that she grabs the car keys and heads out.

I'm supposed to be at school in thirty minutes, Carl is picking me up in twenty.
I find it extra hard to be productive and follow my usual morning routine, since I haven't been in school for  two weeks.
Anthony Hill, the sick fuck who mentally and physically abused me and my mom stalked us after the breakup. Until one night my mom had left for the gas station and he supposedly beat the shit out of her, with his stupid face and his stupid, disgusting breath that would always smell like bourbon. Anyways, I got a call from the hospital and they told me the story.
The only reason the police knew what happened was because smart Anthony here, didn't care to take notice of the witnesses — the only witness being some random dog walker.

I took the bus to the hospital and stayed there until they could tell me about my mom's current state. She had two broken ribs and a concussion added with many ugly bruises, spread out all over her face and body.
"Is there anyone you can call young lady?" I remember hating the feeling of that receptionist calling me "young lady". It made me feel small, worthless.
"I'll just call my aunt."
I don't have an aunt... well I do, I just don't know her.

So instead of going to my "aunt" I went home, took a shower, put on smudgy makeup and a black dress with thighs I hadn't used since my "clubbing phase" from a year ago, and went to the train station, where around 2am "junks" as people would like to call them, us — started hanging out. With hanging out I mean: smoke weed, (or do any other substances), drink whatever and dance to music.
In moments like these I don't turn to my own friends, simply because I don't want to have to talk about the situation I'm in and rather forget it, even if it is just for one night. I also hate sorrow.

I remember judging them at one point in my life, where I was too young to understand that people do stuff for a reason, but old enough to know what weed was.
I might have been thirteen... I don't remember, but what I do remember is that one night before I turned fourteen I had ran away from home.
Long story short, my mom brought home a date that body shamed me at the dinner table, so I told him to "go fuck himself" and ran out the door. I ended up at the train station and watched (what I had assumed where eighteen year olds) dance, smoke and drink. It was the first time I noticed they were actually having fun.