Freedom of Sketch

Mommy Dearest

At first, her words pluck the lengths of my nerves like wires, testing their strength. A hesitant excitement dances in her pupils, like she's playing with fire. Sometimes all I see is the movement of her lipsticked mouth. No sounds pass through the layer of ringing in my ears. There's static in the air and the cats hide behind the couch. Anger surfaces like bruises on my skin and climbs up my chest, grabbing one rib at a time on its way to my throat. But I can't speak.

She coughs up her last insult and turns, padding back to the kitchen island in her bathrobe, head held high, face aglow like she's won something. She perches upon the bar stool and flicks her newspaper open. My hearing returns.

"You're the reason your father left us," she says, taking a sip of tea. She swirls it around, staring hard into the mug. Every syllable settles like a burning dust. "No wonder that girl at school picks on you. You make it so no one can stand you." Her tone is casual, her voice smooth. Her gaze moves to the rows of words marching down the article she's reading. She won't look at me, not for awhile. Not until it's necessary.

I reach behind me, my movements slow and quiet, and curl my fingers around the handle of a large steak knife. Again, this isn't... this can't be me. I feel as though puppet strings are attached to my bones, like I'm turning into a real freak - the breed of freak that ends up in straightjackets or drugged up to their eyeballs in solitary confinement. In any case, I slide the knife out of the butcher block with a gentle shiiiing.

Mother doesn't notice. She adjusts her reading glasses and scans the classified ads. She'd list me if she could. Fifty percent off.

I rest the knife against my inner arm, the edge of the blade lying parallel to my shadowy blue veins. For a brief and terrifying moment, I imagine what it would be like if I were to draw the tip of the knife up the length of my arm - inner wrist to the crook of my elbow - and unzip my skin to watch everything that's inside come to the surface. The only thing I feel is the metal's cold touch, when I really just want to feel the danger. "Sometimes I get so sick of this life," I say, more to myself than to my mother, who still has her nose buried in the folds of her paper. "That's when I think it might be easier to end it." I angle the knife so it grabs the winter light from the window, then play with it in my hand.

My mother scoffs. "You're so dramatic. If you want attention, go bug your friends."

My friends. They don't need this; they live with enough demons. Lizzie is busy whittling her body away one pound at a time. She's so thin, she's more of an idea than a person. Daniel's probably passed out on his stained mattress, bloodstream coursing with vodka. I don't want to ask him to come to my rescue when he'll eventually have to plant himself between his mom and a stepfather who bruises his knuckles on her bones. My friends are gone. They're locked away in storage for the winter and they won't thaw until they're whole again. My lips don't move. I adjust my grip on the knife. My hands begin to sweat as my judgment unravels. The blade sends a butterfly of light darting across the kitchen. It flits around the cabinets, soaring over polished maple and stainless steel, then folds its wings and lands on my mother's empty tea mug.

Finally, she looks up to see me sitting calmly on the counter, the knife secure in my hand. Only the island and a few unsaid words divide the space between us. My mother's eyes widen. She slowly stands, shaky fingers splayed upon the granite. I picture myself sawing through the air, cutting the passing seconds into bloody, wordless slivers. Instead, I raise the knife to my sweaty throat. My pulse hammers against the blade. "Give me an excuse," I whisper.

"I will call the police," she responds firmly.

Without breaking eye contact, I slowly lower my arm, reach behind me, and wiggle the knife back into the butcher block. Then, I slide off of the counter, pick up my messenger bag, and sling it over my shoulder. "You know what, Mom?" I say, strands of hair hanging in front of my face, "that wouldn't be the worst thing."

She follows me, her sharp chin leading the rest of her. "So what is the 'worst thing', hmm? Assault on another student isn't enough - "

" - it wasn't assault," I moan.

" - and now you're threatening me with knives!" She stops. I pause at the bottom of the stairs. We occupy the same space, breathe the same air, speak the same language - just different dialects. I know what we really want: to hold onto each other to keep the pieces together and the pain hidden. We both long to love and to be loved.

"I'm sorry," I say.

She sighs. "Are you? So that's it, then? 'Sorry, Mom, it won't happen again'?"

"I - "

"And what about school?" she interrupts.

"I'll try harder," I say.

She puts a hand to her forehead and waves me away. "Just - write your essay and make sure you let them know how much you regret what you did."

I start my climb up the stairs. My bedroom seems miles away. "I will, Mom. I will."