The Face in the Mirror

Chapter Four

Mom sits on a dirty, ragged reclined, fiddling with the TV remove.

"Dang... Thing..." she rips the batteries out and throws them on the ground. Her room is a mess. Pizza boxes lay on the floor, alongside empty beer cans and dust. She kneels down, looking around for something.

"I can't even watch TV anymore without that stupid retard screaming at me," she mutters to herself.

She picks up a pair of batteries aand shoves them into the remote, turning the TV on.

I walk toward her; she can't see me. Not many people can. A smell of alcohol and grease wafts toward me. I step closer.

This is not the woman that raised me. Mom was loving, sweet, funny. Not this. She's changed. Maybe it was my death, or her divorce, but this isn't Mom. This is Diana. She doesn't deserve to be called Mom anymore.

The TV starts blaring some crime show, and Diana sits back in her chair, pulling a wallet out of her pocket. She pulls the money out of it and starts counting. It doesn't take long.

"Twenty dollars." She spits. "I work all day every day and I only have twenty dollars in my pocket."

I sit on her bed, warily wiping trash off of it. Diana throws the wallet on the ground angrily and turns the TV up even louder.

"Domestic violence in America has raised considerably..." The woman on the TV says. Diana stares at it, a cold-hard look on her face.

"Studies show that children suffering from abuse are more likely to drop out of school, do drugs or alcohol, and even suicide. The New York Department of-"

Diana switches the channel. She probably doesn't want to hear about that right now.

She lays there, taking up the whole seat. She is huge. Her diet lately consists mostly of large pizzas and beer, as made evident by the garbage everywhere. Angrily, I storm out of the room. Why has she let herself go like this? She's a mother. She's not allowed to lose herself. It's not about her. She needs to be strong; she has a daughter looking up to her.

Looking up to her...

I remember now. Even before my death or her divorce or anything, she started to crack.

She had been holding me in her arms, while Jasmine walked. We always took turns letting her carry us, and Jasmine was complaining about my turn being so long. I was shouting at her it was just as long as hers, and we were starting to make a scene. People were staring, and giving Mom rude looks.

She tried sushing us and calming us down, but we didn't listen. We were two, we didn't listen to reason.

Finally, she reached her boiling point and set me on the ground roughly. I remember bruising my tailbone and not sitting comfortably for a week. She didn't seem to care.

She grabbed Jasmine's hands and dragged her out of the crowd, leaving me alone. People-big, tall grownups- swarmed around me, and I could barely stand without being knocked over.

"-making people stare-"

A woman stepped over me, waving her bag frantically as she spoke to someone.

"-too old for this-"

"-you always act like this-"

Then, her voice got angrier, and used words I didn't know. She seemed to strain with energy, and I heard Jasmine crying.

I pushed through the crowd. Jasmine was hurt. She needed me.

But, nobody would let me through, and I had no idea where they were. I was tired and scared and ready to go home.

A woman bumped into me and looked down. Her eyes opened wide and she leaned down beside me. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry!" She said in a sweet, sympathetic voice. "Are you lost? Hurt?"

I nodded, tears coming out of my eyes. She stood up, grabbed my hand, and led me through the crowd.

"Hello? Did anyone lose a little girl?" Nobody responded. She asked again, until my mom heard her and stomped toward us.

"Chloe! Don't wander away!" she snarled, snatching my hand from the woman's. She looked at Mom in faint disgust, then saw Jasmine's face, which was red with a slap-mark and bleeding.

"She fell."

"Hmm. Alright," the woman said, unconvinced. "Anyway, I found your daughter-"

"Yeah, yeah, don't care," Mom said, walking away, dragging Jasmine and me with her.

The woman put a hand on my shoulder, and whispered into my ear, handing me a card, "My name is Elaine Baker. If your mommy or daddy ever hurt you, either call me, or 9-1-1. Got that? Nine one-one."

I nodded and took the card, slipping it into my pocket.

That's it! Elaine Baker. I wonder...

I walk upstairs to my old room and open up a drawer of my valuables. Trading cards, diaries, letters, anything you could think //of in here.

Including one special buisiness card.

I grab Elaine's card and head for Jasmine's room. You can't talk to a ghost on the phone.