Shame. That word always seems to come back to me, nagging me like an ever-present sunburn. I used to try to cover it up, make myself invisible, but somehow someone always brought it back to me.
Now it's all around me; the pitying whispers in secretive tones, the slow, sad shakes of heads, anything to remind me of what could've been if I was just a little bit stronger.
"It's a shame--that poor girl could've amounted to something great if she accepted that her mother can't possibly be coming back."
"That young Scarlett girl, such a trooper. But she's only making matters worse for herself, trying to find her mother. What a shame."
"I feel bad for her, I really do."
But sometimes, the words that were filled to the top with pity overflowed and dried out, turning into anger and disgust and trickling into the words of my peers.
"Hey, isn't that Scarlett? Her mom's been dead what, nine years now? And she's still trying to find her? Pathetic."
"Hey Scarlett," my ever-so-sympathetic classmates would snicker, "how's your mom doing?"
"You know Scarlett Blake? Yeah me and her used to be like super close. She was actually pretty chill before she went all psycho when her mom died. She thinks just 'cause they didn't find the body, her mom is somehow miraculously alive."
No matter what people were saying, their words would slice at me like a rusty dagger; bringing up the past I tried so hard to push down. Slowly, I changed from "Scarlett Blake, the nice girl from Stonehill Lane" to "Scarlett Blake, the poor, pathetic, motherless girl with a sorry excuse for a father."
I sighed. Carefully, I shut the old photo album and ended my bitter reminiscing. It had been a week since I had left my father in that rusty old car and I was on a strike of sorts. I didn't go to a single one of his art shows, let alone speak to him. I didn't need his artificial sympathy and selfish acts. I'd been ignoring his desperate calls and attempts to make amends with me; every bang on bedroom door reminded me of the ever-present anger than consumed his body and lived in his mind. I no longer tried to be the perfect daughter he wanted, I no longer tried to please him.
"Red, please! Just give me two minutes a-and I'll explain everything. Please honey, I need my daughter back." His attempts to play at my sympathies were futile, as were his tempting offers. There was nothing to explain. I already knew what he did to me, to mom. But then again, how could I forget?
****
"Damn it Laura! You can't do a single damn thing right!"
One hit.
"And you! You sorry excuse for a daughter! Get the hell outta here! Should've gotten that damn abortion when we had the chance."
Another.
By then, the hot tears were streaming down my face; each hit a stab at my heart--a rusty dagger that's twisted agonizingly slowly. In and out. In and out.
"Red! Red everything will be ok, just go upstairs and lock yourself in your room. I love you honey." My mother's face twisted in pain as my dad grabbed her by the neck. "Go!"
I didn't know what to do. So I ran. I ran upstairs and into my room and locked myself in like a coward. And when I finally came out the next morning, my mother was no where to be seen.
I pounded on my father's chest, screaming and begging for mommy.
"Where is she?! I want my mommy!"
"I don't know Scarlett," he said monotonously, "I don't know."
