No More

1• Brutality

I see a television screen, but only it's not there. The world has forever blinded me of my happiness. A person can stare at a television screen for hours yet is he really seeing the reality of things? It has been 45 long minutes of uselessness that I have wasted from my life, but is there anything else to lose? I snap into my senses when a belt is being thrown into my direction. The rattling noise it makes on the flesh of my skin is a reminder that the scar will be there forever.

"Come on Verna. Everyone must eat at sometime and that sometime for us is now. So get off the couch, turn off the T.V. , and enjoy a meal for once." It is only my caustic mother that only cares for a few things in this world. I must eat, drink, and sleep are her only priorities for me; everything else does not satisfy her.

As I stand up off the couch, I notice my very unpleasant appearance. As a typical sixteen year old girl, I have grey sweatpants on, a black tank top, and a messy bun. My toes are clutching onto themselves from the reck of nervousness within me.

"Verna, how do you expect people to look at you while you are dressed like that? I am your mother and I cannot even stand to take a glance at you. " My mother, or it only seems to be, may appear to be beautiful from the outside. She has a brutal side of her as all mothers do, but she takes it to an extereme.

She has on her usual apron probably because she just finished doing the dishes and her hair slicked back into a bun with a shiny light brown color. Sadly, I mostly resemble my father.
I take a piece of my dark brown hair behind my ear and begin to speak in a formal manner. My mother will become very bitter and this will irritate her hopefully.

"I have experienced many difficulties with you in the past mother. I would like to say to you, Isla, that I am struggling with physical pain at this moment and I cannot endure the taste of food right now."

The blood from my arm has now drizzled down to my elbow. I quickly take a napkin and wipe off the alarming red color. As the napkin slides across my arm, it feels as if I have taken off a river of blood because it is an overwhelming amount.

"Young lady, have I not told you a million times not to speak to your mother in that tone." As my mother speaks, the grip on the belt has gotten tighter. What comes next is only inevitable. I quickly step away from the television and the couch. She only misses me by a few inches and I am relieved.

"Mother I truly do feel sorry for you sometimes. For it is my only function as a teenager to act on what you speak. It is ostensible that you have no knowledge of this new generation and how a person must react." I feel a huge amount of remorse for myself sometimes because this is my reality.