Instinct

Chapter 1: Triggered

                8:02 PM. January 11, 2013.

                The hymn of breaking glass reverberated throughout the tiny one-story house. Remnants of what once was a vase for dazzling lilies dotted the kitchen floor. A crying Emily Rappart curled into a sitting fetal position against the refrigerator, far away from her enraged mother. The sixteen year old had not done anything tremendously bad prior to the fight. Rather, the single mother was having one of her notorious mood swings. A moody Ms. Dennis (she refused to take the name of her ex-husband) meant that Emily’s faults would be magnified three hundred times worse than usual.

                “Look, I don’t have time to clean up after your mess when I am already busy enough trying to keep this roof over our heads!” Ms. Dennis proclaimed. “The landlord is threatening to kick us out if I don’t pay the rent by the end of the month, and you go out spending money on new clothes that you don’t even need?”

                Heavy drops of water threatened to escape the corner of Emily’s eyes. She knew there would be no use to retort with harsh words. Using the sleeve of her oversized gray sweater, she wiped away the trail of tears from her cheeks and blocked the flow of her running nose. “I’ll return the pair of jeans tomorrow morning. No big deal.”

                Her mother lowered her voice. “No big deal? We can’t waste our savings for a pair of $40 jeans. You know that. If you would get a job, maybe you would understand the value of a dollar.” Emily looked remorseful.

                “Sometimes I wonder how much easier my life would have been without ever meeting your father,” she continued. “To think I was so close to getting an abor – “

                 Immediately the woman’s eyes grew wide. As upset as she was with her daughter, she knew the moment that first syllable came out that she had made a big mistake. Her v-shaped eyebrows curved upwards into an expression of worry.

                Even after hearing the worst possible torments and insults from her own mother several times before, the thought of being aborted shot through Emily’s heart like a dagger. The dried tears were then overshadowed by a heavier flow of tears that raged like the River Amazon. Emily shot up to her feet and stumbled towards her bedroom, slamming the door as forcefully as she could. The slamming door may have sounded loud in the ears of both Emily and her mother, but the thumping of the girl’s heart beat at a terrifying frequency. She brought her desk chair toward the door jammed the doorknob locked.

                “Emily! I’m sorry!” her mother’s voice sounded faint behind the closed door. “Open this door. We need to talk.”

                Emily remained silent, save her sniffling and wails that originated from the back of her throat. She fell down to her knees to reach for something under her mattress. After a few seconds of rapid and hectic attempts to grab the item, Emily pulled out a four-by-two white box. She sat on her carpeted floor Indian style, ignoring her mother’s knocks and desperate attempts to open the door.

                On the top of the box in Emily’s handwriting are the following words: Open during Emergency.  An azure glass vessel lay atop stringy cotton. She took the vial between her pointer and middle fingers. Beneath it was a folded piece of paper. Emily set the vial down on the carpet and unfolded the note. Talk to your best friends before doing anything stupid.

                “Emily, please,” her mother pleaded for one last time. Emily cleared her throat and mustered the courage to speak. “Mom, I just need to rest. Maybe when we’re both cooled down tomorrow, we can talk.”