The Scarred Coincidence

When She Was Young

     I remember the day I was kidnapped, I was a twelve-year-old girl, young enough to be in sixth grade. I just never made it.

 November 18, 2011. My life completely died, just dead. Gone.  On this summer morning, the leaves cascaded down the trees capturing the setting sunlight. Evening comes as a dead end, one step closer to autumn, I slide off my jacket and roll down the hill. As the green leaves tangle in my hair, I tumble down and down and down. 

Until I reach the bottom and roll right into a tree.

 I imagine myself like Alice in Wonderland, falling down the rabbit hole, to open up a door to a new place with unmistakable creatures living there. I climb out of the dark ditch and find my self in a meadow of dazzling sunflowers. I pick up a golden branch and hold it up like I've won the most prized first-place medal.

In a way, it was. It was my prized gold medal.

In the golden field of wonder, I walk back up the hill to my farmhouse.  As an only child, I have to produce my own form of entertainment, not that I mind. My mom works for the newspaper and gets home around dinner time. As I wait for the blue broken-down automobile to drive up our driveway I sit up on the porch and watch the sunrise.

The orange and pink swirls collide with the blue bubbles of clouds whisking above my head, on this windy day. The green pine trees in the distance fight the strong breeze in a majestic dance of dominance. Oh, how I could be so free, to dance in the wind, to light up the sky at night.

I hear the old clunker of my mom's car and look towards the driveway, sure enough, here it comes. I look through the dirty window to see a bottle in my mom's hands. She must've had a bad day at work.

I didn't need to see it twice.

I sprinted in the old building and hid behind the couch. As much as I loved my mother, she needed her space when she got like this. She's an angry person when she involved herself with the bottle and sometimes she put that anger on me. I don't blame her though, its only right to blame the thing that screwed up her life.

As I huddle behind our old and beaten up couch, I watch as my mother walks into the house, throws her work bag on the ground and kicks off her shoes in the corner. She juggles the bottle of clear liquid and disappears from my view. I crouch and put an ear to the corner of the couch and listen in as much as I can. 

Thud.

A large plop indicates that she just seated herself on the couch, eliminating my escape. She clicks on the jukebox television to some action movie that is currently on.

" Gar-bage." She slurs. She throws the remote across the room. It hits the wall with a loud crash and I flinch. 

She gets off the couch and makes her way into the small closed-off kitchen. I rise slowly, cautious not to make any sound and tiptoe my way to my room. I slip past the door and gently close it behind me. I lean against it and slide down until I'm on my but with my head in my hands. 

~~

Hours have passed. Hours of agonizing wait and hunger. I remember that much. To pass the time I cleaned up my toys, built a Lego house, drew three sunflowers, and put my sunflower in a vase by the window. 

I looked to the digital clock hanging on the wall and it read 8:07. It has been almost three hours. She should be fine, right?

I open my door and walk into the narrow hallway and into the living room. There lies my asleep mother with a bottle curdled up against her chest. She murmured things. I don't take notice of the things she is saying then but now, I realize it might not have been a bad time to hear them.

None-the-less I still took off her socks and get rid of the bottle from her hands. I get into the cupboard and take out a blanket. I lay the blanket gently onto her, careful not to wake her up.

I look around the small farmhouse and see the mess. There are things smashed against the wall and broken bottles litter the floor.

Time to clean. I picked up the broken bottles, the trash, and clean the stains on the wall. Twenty minutes later and I'm in the kitchen pouring myself a bowl of cheerios. As the last spoon of cereal enters my mouth I hear a door slam. Walking out of the kitchen I see my father picking up my mother and carrying her into their room, in the last hall to the right. 

As soon as he comes out I run up to him and jump in his arms. One of my favorite memories.

"Well hello, tiger," he says and I giggle. He twirls me around and brings me to my own room.

"You ready for bed sweetie? " He asked. I just nodded my head and let him tuck me into bed. He leans down and pecks me on the forehead. He reaches for the bedside lamp and pulls the string. the only source of life is now gone. The moonlight glow from the window is enough to make out my father's back halting by the door.

"Goodnight, tiger. I love you." He whispered.

"Night. I love you also. "I whispered back.

I stared at the ceiling until my eyes became heavy. I whispered my last goodnight to my teddy bear, Mr. Noodles and my sunflower by the open window. I then let my eyes come to a close and let the darkness overwhelm my senses to bring Sandman to bless my dreams with candy and unicorns.