PRECIPICE [h.s.]

Chapter Eleven

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He's a pinball wizard

There has got to be a twist

A pinball wizard's

Got such a supple wrist

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TW: Brief Mention of suicide and suicidal themes

Jaime's P.O.V.

June 7th 1997

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"I don't understand why you have to do this." My lungs felt like they were half their normal size. Any air I attempted to get into them quickly left. It was so hot my thighs were sticking to the plastic chair I was sitting on. I could feel sweat drip down my back.

"Shut up."

Even though I was sitting up straight, my chest felt like I was lying down and there was an elephant sitting on top of it. Her grip on my hair made me feel like there were a million needles being pushed into my head.

"Mom. Please. Please don't." I struggled to get each word out. I was hyperventilating between each syllable, my hard chapped lips struggling to form the sounds. There was a cheese cloth closing off my throat keeping me from breathing properly.

She gathered all my hair up in her palm and twirled it around her fist. She pulled my head backwards so she could stare directly into my eyes. Her face was even scarier upside down. She didn't look like my mom. Her face was wrinkled and her skin looked like someone had sunk their claws under her eyes and pulled down with all their strength. Her once bright pale skin was grayed. She looked sick. The whites of her eyes were red, and blood was dripping out of them.

"She's gone." She pulled my hair. "And it's your fault."

The smell on her breath made me want to die right there. Watered down beer, cigarettes and something that can only be described as a hot New Jersey landfill. If I had eaten anything in the past three days I probably would have vomited right there. It solidified to me that this wasn't her. Drinking was dad's thing.

She usually isn't this bad! I promise! You believe me, right? This isn't my mom. This wasn't my mom. Where was my mom? Did she go with her? Oh my god, where is my mom?

This is a rare occurrence. It's not usually like this. It's a sometimes not an always. There was nothing I could do when she was like this. There was no saving myself, yet something in me still tried to fight. I tried to agree with her, hoping that if I begged it would let me off easier.

"I know. I'm sorry. She's gone. It's my fault but please don't do this." I heard the sleek sound of sharpened scissors loud in my ears. I sob erupted from my throat. I couldn't tell if my pain was more physical or mental. My entire body was shaking. The scissors jaggedly attempted to slice through my hair. Between my mom's loosening grip, and my constant movement, I knew that there was no way the cut was going to be even. My hair would be all different lengths. That didn't matter to her though. What mattered was that I didn't have it. A Rapunzel without hair to let her down to freedom. A Samson without her strength.

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I woke up sweating from my dream last night. I couldn't go back to sleep. It wasn't even 5am and the sun was still hiding. At this point I couldn't tell what was a memory and what was a dream. I have tried to block out as much of my past life as I can.