It Needs a Name

Chapter 8

I hear Mother stumble down the stairs, I don't bother to look up from my knitting. Yes, yes I was still knitting my...something. I had no idea what I was making and it didn't matter. The repetitive motion was soothing, when I was working my fingers through this blue fabric, I felt a bit less anxious. Not like I was constantly standing on the edge of a cliff, contemplating throwing myself into the abyss below. 

There were knots in the yarn, and it was tangled hopelessly in some areas, but I loved it still. It was my own creation, it was tangible. I could touch it, hold it in my hands. This was different than my writing, this felt more real.

It wasn't that I still didn't enjoy writing. I loved it. It was a part of me and I needed to do it or I'd go insane. More insane than I already was, anyway. I just had something else to focus my attention on, another hobby.

Mother made her way into the kitchen, her hair was a rat's nest. It rivaled Medusa's serpent locks. Unlike Medusa, my mother was not a part of Greek mythology, so this hairdo just wasn't working for her. 

I watched her pull a coffee mug out of the cupboard and pour herself some brew, not bothering with her normal creamer and sugar. This was a cup of Hangover Recovery. Medium-Dark Roast Recovery. She sank down into the chair across from me, she was wrapped in her ratty old robe, not the normal clean and pressed, pink cocoon. This was all a bad sign. I could see the warning flags waving around her, telling me to get the hell out of there, now. 

I dropped my eyes back to my knitting and wait for her to rage out on me for touching her yarn. She hated when I touched her yarn. She'd turn into a long-dormant volcano, sewing lava, spit and ashes at those who were foolish enough to venture too close. 

Minutes passed and she didn't utter so much as a peep. I doubted she had even looked up from her coffee, or realized I was there at all. For some reason, not only did this depress the hell out of me, but I felt relieved. I felt like I had dodged a bullet. 

I looked up from my ball, and saw her just sitting there, hunched over like some of the crazy old pigeon ladies that sat in the park, talking to the birds. Mother wasn't talking to birds, yet. I took this as a good sign. I cleared my throat, taking a chance. 

"Mom, it's after one in the afternoon," my voice shook slightly. I hated speaking to people, especially my mother. Most of the time when I spoke, she would answer in this really irritated voice, like I was wasting her time by talking. 

No answer, not even a twitch or a wiggle. This was just getting scary. Very, very scary. 

I reached a hand out to her, touching her arm lightly, "Mom..? You okay? Mom.." I rubbed her arm, trying to get her to look at. 

She did more than look at me...

"WHAT, CHRIST ALMIGHTY WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU NOW?! CAN'T YOU BE QUIET FOR TWO GODDAMN MINUTES! CHRIST!" her voice made the windows shake, I jumped back in a flash, I could feel my eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. I started at her, unsure of what to do. I was scared, I'll admit it. Scared of this creature that had crawled into my mother's skin, snarling and glaring at me like I was an enemy to be destroyed. 

"God, I am so sick you. Just go away, go to your room and do whatever the fuck it is you do every damn day. GO!", the windows jumped again, the walls cringed. I I jumped up, knocking my chair to the floor inn my haste to get away.

I flew up the stairs to my room, throwing my door shut, praying she wouldn't follow me up. I grabbed my pillow and shoved my face into it, and started screaming. Letting out the terror, all of the pent up feelings out of me before I ripped open. 

What had I done? What had I done to deserve any of this?