Childish Tendencies

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>Now you know what this was all about<

Mia's Black Book

When we landed in Saudi Arabia, the first thing I noticed was the Arab women. They were everywhere, camouflaging into their husbands, fixing their hijabs, and talking in hushed voices behind a thick layer of makeup. The thing that attracted me most to these women, however, was their voices. They talked in silent tones, on the verge of whispering. Although, you couldn't hear them from afar, you could see their lips constantly moving, forming unreadable words. If you got closer to them, you would hear their voices.

When I first heard two Arab women talk, I had to pause with fascination. Their voices sounded like silk, soft, indulging silk. They sounded as smooth as the melted chocolate that you want to flick onto your fingers and lick off of them. I couldn't get enough of them, chattering in an unknown language with voices of gold. 

I only got to hear the voices twice, once on our way into Saudi Arabia, and the second time, on our way out. Jake and I had spent three days there cooped up in our hotel while Mother had scavenged for illegal drug deals, a fact I found out later.

My expectations of the vacation had shattered on the third day. Until then, we still had time to get out and explore, but on day three, it was all over. Jake spent the morning in front of the television, trying to figure out what was going on. I spent the morning staring out of the window and dreaming. That morning I dreamed of the garden. It had felt a little bit strange since it was routine for me to dream inside the garden instead of about it. 

Jake had taken pity on me as lunch came around.

"Get dressed," he rose from the couch and pulled on his shoes. We were walking in the hotel compound fifteen minutes later.

"You can't catch me!" I heard Jake scream, taking off down the road.

"Hey!" I said following him. When we were younger, I always expected this. Every time we were in an open space and he could run, I got ready ahead of time.  In fact, after three weeks of not playing the game, I had tried to facilitate it only to find Jake blocks away from me, shaking his head while he walked. This was the first time he had done this after Mother had returned.

I caught up with Jake just in time to watch his face drop in disappointment. I followed his line of gaze to see Mother, wearing a black hoodie, hand a packet (that I later found out to be meth) to a man wearing red. I watched as Mother took a wad of money from the man, and then run down the aisle, disappearing into the corner.

"And she's supposed to be your mother." I Jake mumbled as he walked past me back to the hotel.

That was the first and last vacation I ever had. I can still hear the voices of the Arab ladies at times – especially now, when all I can do to escape reality, is dream.

I was returning home from the garden when I found Jake and Mother. On December eleventh, I stood outside my house, looking through the crack between the wall and door.

"It's all because of you, you piece of shit!" Jake's cheek began to bleed from the impact of Mother's ring. He turned away from her, hands in the air in self-defense. Mother took another blow at him, punching him in the stomach. I could smell the dangerous aroma of alcohol. Jake's favorite watch was shattered and his hoodie torn. Mother held her heels in her hand.

"It's your fault you little faggot," Mother shrieked. Jake squirmed as Mother pinched his stomach. Her hand collided with his jaw, blood splattering about. I watched the blood as it flew from Jake's mouth. He screamed as Mother whacked him on his back. Jake then angled his body towards the window, trying to block Mother.

"You can't do one thing right, can you?" Mother pushed him against the wall. Jake's face tore with pain as blood dripped from the back of his head. She punched him again, square in the nose. A drop of blood fell onto my chin.

"Stop," I shook with anger, "stop it Mother, stop it, stop it, stop it." A spark of insanity glowed in her eyes as she walked toward me. Her laugh filled the room just as my hands wrapped around her neck. I watched as she gasped for air, blood rushing into her eyes. I felt her veins pop under my fingers, reminding me of the engine of a train. Her mouth fell open, as consciousness left her. Her limp body fell onto the floor. I climbed over it before wrapping my arms around Jake's waist, squeezing him to me, the drop of blood still on my chin.

That's how I found myself locked up in Ridewood's Psychiatric Prison for Women. Jake says the lawyer saved me from going to real prison for killing Mother. By claiming I was crazy, he had managed to send me here. Still, it's pretty bad here. No gardens, no rotten swings, no Arab ladies, no hot chocolate cups, nothing. All I can do is hear the other crazy people scream around me. Sometimes, for fun, I scream too. But I'm not crazy. I just have a constant need to elude anything and everything ordinary.