We made it to the hospital in a panic, there was a lot of screaming, and everything passed in a blur. I stared out the window most of the way there. The paramedics seemed to ask a lot of questions I didn't have answers to.
"Has she always been like this?"
Well I don't know asshat, apparently.
"Does she usually act irrationally?"
Fuck, how am I supposed to know? She's never home.
My sister was no help either, she was just sitting in the corner, crying and screaming. I've never wanted her to shut up so much before. I just need her to stop so I can wake up and have this all be a dream. There's no way this is real.
The ambulance stops and all of a sudden I'm inside the hospital and my mother is restrained to a hospital bed in a white room that smells too much like death and bleach and I just want to go home. Home to a place that doesn't have kids dying of cancer and a crying sister and a mother that's been knocked out, medically. I realize now I'm wishing for a home that doesn't exist. My sister's always freaking out about something and my mother's never home, and if she is, she's never mentally there and I'm not sure what's worse.
I sit down in the nearby chair and stare at the picture on the far wall. It's a small, gold-framed canvas painting of a book shelf. It's a poorly painted picture and I don't like it at all, but I stare at it for what feels like ages. All of a sudden I'm recounting my last twenty-four hours in vivid memory.
___________________________
Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCKINGSHIT.
I'm in the sad excuse for a living room. Across from me is my mother. To the left my sister. I can't feel anything. My face, my hands, my own pulse, all gone. Nothing feels alright anymore. No one's moving and mother's still smiling as if she didn't just say what she said.
"What do you mean, you're seeing our father?" Good, my sister's talking so I don't have to. I have less than no words.
"All the times I've gone away, I've been with your father. I didn't want to tell you too soon, I wanted to make sure it was the right time and that you were ready." She's still smiling. I want to smack that stupid fucking grin off of her face. My pulse is back and it's pounding and I can't breathe. Then I threw the glass at the wall and that smile fell right off of her face. It shatters and I start yelling.
"What the fuck do you mean 'the right time'?! Like there's a right time to tell us you've been lying to us our whole lives. Fuck right off with that logic." I'm shaking and I'm not sure what the hand gestures I'm doing right now mean, but I can't help it.
"Elliott, why are you so angry?!" Mother's yelling now too.
"Why is HE angry?! El has every right to be angry! We both have every right to be angry." Frankie's angry now too. Suddenly she's standing up and leaning over the table.
"Your father's changed since the incident." Incident?! He hated us. He was angry and he yelled all the time. Much like our house now. She's defending him and I'm going to be sick. I sit down again and stare into nowhere. This can't be happening. My life can not possibly be so fucked up. I'm pretending I don't have a lying mother and a missing father. I'm pretending I'm not angry at life and that we're still sitting down eating bad spaghetti. Right now, I'm pretending I don't want to die.
"Incident?! He hit you, packed his shit, and left." Frankie's crying, I think I might be too but I can't feel my face.
I can't breathe. Everything's rushing back to me all at once. My skin feels uncomfortable and I'm scratching at my arms. Frankie notices. She takes control and calms down.
"Mum, go to bed. I'm going to care for El right now and it's best if you're not in the room."
"But Frankie,"
"Leave." She says this with such certainty and firmness.
Mother leaves to her room angrily.
I don't comprehend what I'm looking at but my arms are burning and I'm still violently scratching. I want out of my skin. I want to be able to breathe and to feel okay. Frankie pulls my right hand away from my left forearm but it's too late. Both of my arms are split and bleeding. She wipes my face of what can only be assumed as tears and she asks why I'm reacting so badly to this.
Every blue and black bruise is coming to mind. Every time someone would tap my arm and I'd flinch. Every night that father would come home late and angry and violent. Every time I couldn't wear shorts in the summer. Frankie doesn't know though. She couldn't. He never hurt her, that I know of. Her view on me would change. I wouldn't be her brave, strong, older brother anymore. I'd be the abused. But she's asking.
"Elliott... What did he do?"
"No"
"Elliott."
"Frankie, no."
"Elliott James Finn."
"He wasn't good. That's all. I'm done." I'm standing up now, heading to my bedroom. She didn't stop me this time. She just watched with her sad green eyes. It hurt so much, but still less than what it would've hurt had we talked about it. I'm almost at my bedroom when the screaming starts. Bloodcurdling, horrendous, violent screams. I turn towards Frankie immediately, scared that she's physically hurt, and see that it's not her that's screaming. Our eyes meet and we both take off towards mother's bedroom. I'm there first, probably due to my longer legs. Laying beside her bed is my mother, bleeding from her left arm with a pair of scissors shoved through it, screaming intensely. She's gripping the scissors, pushing them into the middle of her forearm more.
I immediately turn to hold Frankie back from seeing this. It's too late, she's seen it. She's screaming and pushing me out of the way, but she's much smaller than I am and I pick her up by the waist and bring her to the hall. She's pushing against me with all her strength which, compared to my six-foot-two height, isn't much.
"Elliott let me go!"
"F-Frankie," I'm struggling to control her now, "I need you to call an ambulance. Please just," she's still frantic and crying a lot, however she's calming down and nodding, "just go get an ambulance." She's rushing off to the kitchen. I turn towards my mother's room and rush to her side. I'm kneeling in a blood stained carpet.
I don't remember what happened next. All I know is I metaphorically woke up in the ambulance. Then at the hospital.
_________________________
There's nothing anymore. What do I do? How am I supposed to do anything in a hospital? For fucks sakes. I'm staring at the painting again. It's getting increasingly uglier as I look at it. Horribly painted, old, worn down. I hate that stupid painting. It sucks. It sucks like my life.
My life isn't real after this. Imagine living a life so messed up that your mother stabbed herself with fucking crafting scissors and all you can think about is how ugly that painting is.
That stupid fucking painting.
