Honey

Part 4

I wake up to screaming. Something crashes from downstairs. I sit up in bed and blink in the dark, my eyes adjusting to the low light. The screaming continues, words I can hardly make distinction of. I slip out of bed and tiptoe to my door, opening it just a crack. The light is on down stairs. I make my way to the stairs and at the bottom I can see just barely into the kitchen. My mom is sitting on the floor. Crying. 

"Fuck!" she screams. I walk closer. "Fuck you! I want my baby back.  Where's my baby?" There's fragments of a broken plate on the floor and her feet are bleeding.

"Mom!" I shout, but she's making a horrible, wailing sounds, kicking at the cabinets opposite her. "Mom stop!" I kneel down next to her and she starts waving her fists around, nearly hitting me. I grab her wrists and climb on top of her, holding down her legs. She keeps screaming, tears streaming down her face. She's thin and frail, helpless against even me. 

"Get off me! Get off me you bitch," she spits.

"Mom," I say. "Mom." I pull her against my chest and she sobs loudly, dampening my shirt. This is not like the woman I've always known, it's not even like the woman I've known since the accident. She's not stoic and strong. She's broken. Broken and ugly with sadness. "Let's get you cleaned up and into bed," I say at last when she's quieted down. I help her up carefully and she leans against me as I lead her upstairs to the bathroom. I wipe down her feet with a wet wash cloth and then put on neosporin and bandages. She stays quiet the whole time, just staring blankly in the distance. I help her back to her room and put her in bed. She stays holding onto my hand, so I crawl into bed with her. I wrap my arms around her and hold her until she falls asleep. 

I run my fingers through her thick brown hair. She's breathing deeply and her face is splotchy and red, her eyelids swelling up. I slip my arms out from around her and carefully get out of bed. I go downstairs and observe the damage she did. There's a broken glass in the sink and the broken plate on the floor. Drops of blood scatter the floor and there are footprints of red on the cabinets and leading upstairs. I grab a dust pan and broom and clean up. I wash the floors and the cabinets and then I just keep on scrubbing. I scrub the floors and the walls until the sun comes up. 

The front door squeaks open at around 7 and my father comes loping in. He looks disheveled and has great big bags under his eyes. I don't ask him where he was and he doesn't ask me why I'm up. He just goes upstairs and I go to the basement. I put on my gym shoes and hop on the treadmill and run until my legs are shaking and I can hardly breath. And I keep going, sweat pouring off my forehead and down my back. 

"Juliet?" I hear my mother's croaky voice call from the top of the stairs. I get off the treadmill and go back up to the kitchen. She's standing in a bathrobe, looking exhausted. "There's some boy here asking if he can give you a ride," she says.

"Tell him I'm fine," I say. She frowns and nods, walking back to the front door. I peer quickly around the door way to catch sight of Will walking away down the sidewalk. Mom doesn't even ask if I'm going to be late. She goes back upstairs to no doubt lie in bed without any chance of sleep.

I go to my bathroom and climb into the shower turning on the hot water. It runs down my cold, sweaty skin. I can see my ribs, I can count them one by one. I can see my knobby knees and protruding hip bones. I used to love it. I used to love the scars on my hips and my thighs and the way my cheekbones look. Now I am just searching for an old thrill, an old feeling. When my body and my hair is washed I climb out of the tub and wipe the fog off the mirror until I can see my own brown eyes. They look red and tired. I must have only had about an hour of sleep after going to see Will last night. I pull on big sweatshirt the length of a dress on me and put on my shoes, grabbing my bag from where I left it on the floor. I put my damp hair in a bun and then make my way out of the house.