Clean

The Middle

Time has passed, yet the girl was left unchanged. Technically. The same hazel hair, the same simple dresses, the same almond-shaped eyes.

She is the same, even though the circumstances aren't. Even though it has been so long. How long, she's not sure. Could be weeks. Could be months. Or maybe years, she didn't know. The grandfather clock had stopped along with her thoughts.

There was shuffling on the other side of the door.

The girl shut her eyes. She burrowed deeper into her thin covers, shivering. God, it was cold.

Pounding—was that pounding?—on the other side of the door.

She shut her eyes tighter.

Faint pounding, faint enough to drown out. "Delilah." Pound, pound, pound. Louder now. "Delilah!"

Rough rapping. A sigh on the other end.

"Just get out of the damn bed, will you?" said the voice on the other end. The sound of shuffling, and then it was quiet.

The girl groaned, reluctantly climbing out of bed. She didn't bother to be better-dressed.

She made her way downstairs. The woman was already seated on the wooden betch that acted as their couch. The woman brought the bottle clutched in her right hand to her lips and looked up. When she saw the girl, she sneered.

"About time you hauled your lazy ass out of bed," said the woman.

The girl entered the kitchen without a word. The woman followed, setting down the bill she had in her left hand on the kitchen table. She took a swig from her bottle, then frowned.

What did she want this time?

"Why didn't you wake up earlier?" she said. The girl paid her no attention. She took a mug from one of the drawers.

"I needed you to clean up the living room! God, all you ever do is give me a headache." The girl pictured the woman shaking her head. "If your Pa was here, he wouldn't approve of you waking up at such a time."
The girl poured coffee mix inside the mug.

"Oh, wait," said the woman. "Oh wait! I almost forgot." She laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. "He's dead."

The girl piled in a teaspoon of sugar.

"Why did you have to be the one thing he left me? If you'd never been born"—she picked up the bill on the table and waved it around, scowling— "maybe I wouldn't have these piles of bills with me. And the things. The things I have to fucking do, just to pay for your therapy sessions.

"All because you're too immature to put on your big girl panties and realize that he's dead. Your father is dead! And he is never..."

The woman paused.

The girl's hand trembled as she added hot water to the mug.

The woman took in a sharp breath. "He is never coming back," she spat out.

A chair scraping, and the woman sitting down. "You don't know." She grit her teeth. "You don't know how much I hate being your mother."

The girl would have laughed, if she had enough willpower to do so. What a lie. What an ignorant, bitter lie. She knew. She knew how much the woman despised her ever since Pa passed away.

It was the only thing the woman spoke of.

It was the only thing the woman knew her for: not as a daughter, but as a place to spit her sharp words that stank of booze.

The girl's breathing was becoming heavier. She never did quite get used to the words; never mind the fact it was the only thing she'd been hearing for the past...four years? She closed her eyes for a second, taking in the scent of coffee. It grounded her, even if just a little.

"I hate you," the woman behind her spat out.

The girl said nothing, just stirred her coffee.

"Are you even listening?"

There was no reply, just the sound of a spoon clinking against ceramics.

The chair scraping again, and quick steps toward the girl.

"I said, I fucking hate you!" The woman grabbed her by the hair, twisting her locks in a firm grip, digging her nails into the girl's scalp, dragging the girl by the hair.

Yelling. Pleading. Maybe it was the girl's; she didn't know. All she knew was the burning pain and the yelling and the tears, the tears that had stained her cheeks and dripped unto her shirt before the woman threw her down on the floor, leaving her to scrape her palm.

She whimpered. It was all she could do. It was alright. It was fine. She was seventeen, after all. She'd be out of this hell in no time.

The girl didn't even realize she was sobbing until she was slapped, harshly, and her lips sealed shut. Her cheek burned, and she touched a hand to it. As if that could do any good.

For a minute, everything was still.

For a minute, there was nothing but the sound of the girl's ragged breathing and the woman's slight panting.

For a minute, there was nothing but blood seeping from the girl's wound. Not that she would've noticed. But the woman, nothing escaped her scrutiny. Which is why she asked, "Does it hurt?''

The girl hesitated.

Slowly, as if she did not understand, she gave the faintest of nods.

The woman crouched down. For a single moment, the girl could not speak, as if all the air had escaped her lungs. She was terrified. It was like staring at a ghost, in the way the woman looked at her with something resembling concern. Like she was her mother, and not the unknown monster she was.

They both sat there, staring at each other, the girl's lips parted slightly in shock, the woman with features calm and indecipherable. Their breathing had evened out.

Outside, the birds chirped.

To the girl's horror, the woman came closer. So close. Close enough that just an inch would've been enough to press her lips to the girl's forehead.

And then the woman smiled. Mirthlessly.

"That's nothing compared to what I feel every day," she whispered.

She stood up, wiping her nose, barking out an order to clean the living room. And then she was gone, leaving the girl in nothing but a mass of bottles and receipts and pill containers that bore witness to her cruelty, every day.