Hey There, Delilah

Ch5 •Walking on Eggshells•

Disappointment hung heavily on my ankles. I approached my house, and exhaled deeply. Mothers glanced at me, and waved slowly. I did my best to cover my worries with a soft smile. I turned the corner, and I could hear their conversation start up. Even with their best efforts, their target, I suspect was me, was uncovered."TEENAGERS NOWADAYS." Then after a moment of hushed comments, it would be followed by "I KNOW. THEY ACT LIKE THEY'RE ABOVE EVERYONE ELSE." I thought of a million comebacks along with sickening concerns that resolved around Me and Delilah's argument. I sped faster so I could try to tune them out, and make it harder for myself to go back and chew their ears off. My house sat in its permanent shadow. A large willow oak tree draped over our chimney. I was living in the "Scary" house down the street in every childhood movie or TV show. Where the neighbors had their white shutters, we had wood boards painted. Where the families had their children's toy littering their grass, we had dead leaves and limbs from the tree we had removed two years ago. My mom's car was gone. The oil stained the concrete where it steadily leaked. "Fuck." I had forgotten to take the key. I hoped that my mom came through for once, and left the key under the matt. Dead bugs and dirt were exposed, but no key. I searched through my contacts to call her, and to find out where the fuck she went. A pause accompanied the rings, and her voice mail croaked through the phone. "You have reached me. If I wanted to talk to you, I would've picked up. I guess if you really need to talk, try again. If it's not important, don't. Don't be an ass-." I couldn't help but grow uneasy about her whereabouts.

I took a seat on the front steps. 4:05. I people watched as they walked past my house. Small children rode their bikes, and fifteen feet behind was their mother on her phone. I became agitated. Her neglect to watch her kids, resulted in one of them nearly being hit by my mom. The child whimpered, and a honk brought the mother to face reality. She scolded my mom with her finger. Shaking vigorously, she dragged her kids into the yard across the street. The car jerked into our driveway. My mom struggled to unlock the car door. I kept my distance to allow her to take time to decide her course of action. The wise option was to walk away, and leave the shitty mom to deal with her kids on her own. The other option, which is what she chose, was to point out the shitty mom's mistakes in parenting. The door clashed against the warped door frame of the car. "HEY!" Even from the safe zone, the mom's fear was clearly seen. I knew how she would act, and how she would fight the tears and fight the urge to give into the temptation of yelling back. I knew it all too well. She kept her arm out to keep her kids blocked from her view. "OH. NOW YOU'RE WORRIED ABOUT YOUR KIDS. YOU WEREN'T UNTIL ONE OF THEM ALMOST FUCKING DIED BY MY CAR. YOU DON'T DESERVE THOSE KIDS, THEY WOULD BE BETTER OFF IF YOU ABORTED THEM!" Her arms left her kids' shirts, and trembled violently. Her fear shifted to anger.

She looked both ways before crossing over to our yard. My mom's feet were firmly planted by the car. The women glanced over her shoulder to check on her kids, and put her hands out to stop their attempts of running to her. I moved away from the house, and sneakily approached. I stood behind to keep things from escalating. "You don't ever talk about my kids. I was checking on their father's status- he's in the hospital, and the doctor was sending me reports. You don't know my life, you don't know me. Keep your fatass mouth shut." She wiped the tears that started to run down her cheeks. "YEAH WALK AWAY. Cunt." My mom turned to me, "What the fuck do you want?" She brushed past me, and her stench clung to the air around me.

I put up a wall of tolerance, and watched the mother and her kids storm away. The faces of her children spoke of fear and confusion, and I felt empathy for the kids for having to cross paths with my psychotic Mom. I gripped the strap of my bag- the warn material barely held onto the strings of duct-tape. I could see the years taking its toll on the shitty bag I got from Marshall's. I was impressed with how it lasted since fifth grade. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? GET IN HERE YOU DUMBASS!" My heart skipped when I was called for. Her motherly tone only truly showed when she was enraged.