Stranger

       What have I done? My little girl, lying on my kitchen floor as the blood slowly seeps from the cut on her forehead, weakly tries to raise her head and her eyes lock on to mine. Within those eyes, I can see the deep hurt she feels, not only the obvious pain on the surface from her injury, but much deeper, from the fact that I was the one who injured her. Quickly staunching the blood flow with some paper towels, I know it won't be enough to save her, so I pull my cell phone out of my pocket to dial 9-1-1.

     Walking downstairs to the kitchen, I smelled something unusual. It smelled of...actual food? Something must have been going on because the only time I smell food cooking in the morning is on my birthday and Christmas. My mom should have still been at work, finishing up the midnight shift at the hospital. So then, who was cooking? Quickly but quietly crossing the living room, I peeked my head around the corner.

      "Mom? What are you doing home?" I asked.

    "Can't a mother just be home to cook her daughter breakfast every once in a while?" she said, gritting her teeth.

    Noticing some tension in her voice, I decided to ignore whatever it was and eat the delicious-smelling spread of bacon, eggs, and toast. Her cooking was always amazing, though she never had the time. My mom sat down across the table from me, awkwardly twiddling her thumbs as I ate. I wondered why she seems so nervous.

     "Mom, are you okay?"

     "Yeah! Why would anything be wrong?" she replied quickly, the tension once again present in her voice.

     "Nothing is wrong. Right?"

      Instead of replying, she just mumbled and moved her food around her plate with her fork.

     We're very close, considering it's just the two of us, so I had no idea what she would be keeping from me. With a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, I grabbed my book bag and headed for school.

    Silently weeping, I watched her sleep with all those machines hooked up to her. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and her even breaths filled me with more and more fear for her as each moment passes. I didn't understand how this could have happened. I thought I had learned to control myself, but when she yelled at me like that...she shouldn't have yelled at me like that! She didn't understand why I left!

     Noticing my growing anger, I forced myself to calm down. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I hurt her again, especially while she lies defenseless in a coma, the coma I put her in to begin with.

     Suddenly, the heart monitor broke its rhythm, jerking me away from my thoughts. My heart swelled with hope as I walked across the room to her limp form, praying that she might waken. But as I reached her, the monitor reverted back to its previous, methodical beeping. All of the hope that I had just been filled with drained away as quickly as it came, and my head dropped with desperation. Sitting back down in the chair, the rhythmic sounds put me in a trance once again.

     "Emma?"

     "Yes, sir?" I asked, focusing my attention back on the teacher rather than this morning.

    "I asked you what the Silk Road was," he replied. Noticing the blank look on my face, he said, "Number nine."

      Looking around, I noticed that everyone had last night's homework on their desk. As I rummaged through my folder to find it, Mr. Douglas moved on to the next student. He usually only called on me about once every week because he knew I don't like to speak in class, but he still wants me to "develop speaking skills" or something like that.