by Blair Burden
Chapter 2
August 2
I awoke on my bed, which really was not a bed at all, but a mattress on the floor. I listened to Mama as she sipped her coffee in the other room. How did I get home? I thought.
Dressed in her work uniform, Mama stood in my doorway. “What were you thinking?”
“What do you mean,” I said.
“You’re cutting yourself again. I thought you were over that faze. Mandy would always catch you and she would be the one to help—”
“Can we not talk about her?”
“You can’t act like she didn’t exist.”
“I can and I will. You do the same with daddy.”
“I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Exactly. So let’s not bring her name up, ever.”
“So, you quit your job.”
“How did you know that?”
“Why? We needed that extra cash.”
“I don’t know.”
Mama walked out the room and I heard her open the front door to leave for work. As I stood up, I noticed a spot of blood. “Mama!” I shouted and ran to the door. “Mama!” I was too late as she sped off down the street.
I went back into my room and unwrapped my arm that was blood free. Then, I pulled off my pants and blood slid down my thighs. I began to breathe heavy as I ran into the bathroom.
I dialed Mark’s number on my cell phone but as expected, he did not answer. He never answered the phone when I tried to contact him. I tried Mama’s number but I forgot she could not afford her month’s bill. I threw my phone down onto the floor and stripped down. I noticed a bruise on my stomach—a fresh bruise. I touched it and the pain was like pulling off a fresh scab. The first thought that came to mind was Mama. Mama would be the only woman atrocious enough to do such a thing to her daughter. I mean, if she could do it to her husband, she did not care much about me.
It was not a rumor; it was a fact that she was cold-hearted. Mama killed my father. I know she planned it because she couldn’t afford him anymore. He was diagnosed with severe lung cancer when I was in ninth grade. As my grades slipped, his condition deteriorated as well. As he deteriorated, Mama became more demented. So, to help herself out, she slipped a little of her “magic” into his water and within ten minutes daddy died right here in our living room. Detectives were not suspicious because my father only had months to live. She got away with murder and she sold her soul.
I told you she was evil. You need to get away from her. You need to do it soon, daddy said.
“But I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t get away from her.”
You have to, baby girl.
I began to get weaker as more blood began to flow out. I crawled over to my bed and wrapped myself in my blankets—not caring if I would wake up in the morning or not.
