Two

WARNING: swearing language and material that may cause triggers.

     The reason that I haven't talked to my mother since the April before my eighteenth birthday is that I was arrested. See, that day, I had walked my dog down to the church around the corner from mother's house. I did this often in the afternoons, usually right when I got home from school. And I always took my iPod with me, because that was the only way I could communicate with Jay. At this time, he had been my boyfriend for about eight months, despite my mother's efforts to keep me away from him. I always found some way to talk to him or see him when I got the chance. So I took this chance almost everyday.

     The thing about iPods is, you can't text or call off of them unless you have Internet. Being the clever lass I've always been, I managed to successfully guess the password to the church's Internet. So all my problems were solved.

     If you're wondering why I always used my iPod instead of my phone, it's because my mom had told my grandfather, who paid my phone bill, that Jay and everyone else from my church was - yep. You guessed it - evil. So he monitored my phone records. All eyes were on the numbers I called and texted from that damned cellphone. And I never stopped talking to the people I wanted to talk to when everyone told me to quit, so, eventually, the ability to text was taken from me. That's right, couldn't send or receive texts to or from anybody! All I could do was call, and I still got in trouble if I called or answered anyone from church. Especially if it was Jay.

     So long story short, I talked to Jay from my fricking iPod, rather than my phone, every single day. It made life easier, talking to him. It made my depression dissolve, if only for a moment. If I ever found a day where I couldn't find a way to communicate with him, it wasn't a good day at all.

 

     The last day I was at my mother's, I was walking the dog, as usual. I texted Jay and waited about an hour for his reply. He couldn't always respond right away if he was at work, which made me worry sometimes, considering his work consisted of inspecting pumpjacks.

 

     When he finally replied, I tried my best to calm down for him. We only texted back and forth for about half an hour. I still don't know why I did this, but I did. I told him that I loved him and explained that just in case I wouldn't be able to text him back later that night, I hoped he would have sweet dreams. And I remember he kept saying he loved me and asking if I was okay. And I just said it back multiple times before I was forced to return home.

 

     I didn't even bathe that night. I didn't have the effort to, and I definitely wasn't willing to go in, let alone near my mom's room, despite the need to talk to Jay, even if it was just for a second. I just changed into some sweats and a t-shirt and fell into the couch that was in my room.

 

     The thing about my room was, I never slept in my bed after that couch got moved in there. I was afraid to. I don't exactly know why, but I was. So I gave the bed to my dog, which he didn't have a problem with. Or at least, I don't think he did. He really wasn't at liberty to have a problem with it. I mean, how many Boston terrier/Border collie mixes get an entire king-sized bed to themselves? The answer: One.

 

     Point is, I slept on the couch, Gator slept on the bed. Occasionally, if it was really cold or he could sense what I was feeling, he would crawl up on the couch next to me. I regret it now, but I used to push him back on the bed if he tried to snuggle up next to me. I hope to God that dog knew how much he meant to me. That was like my second kid. The first had been Bernie, the dog before Gator.

 

     This night in particular, that I'd let Jay go early, I was incredibly upset. My mother's attitude couldn't have been more s****y toward me. She'd been drinking, so I hadn't really expected anything less. But she was just so... vulgar. It wasn't just things she said to me, it was how she said them, how she spat her venom at me without a care.

 

     I cried. I cried often, but that night, I let it all go. And rather than participate in self-mutilation, I grabbed a red pen and scribbled all over my wrist, writing HELP in all big letters. My lights were out, my music up, tears flooding the very weak dams that were my eyes, and, unfortunately, there was no lock on my door.

 

     She busted right through the door without even knocking. It was late and pitch black, but there she was. And she was grabbing everything that was mine and saying all kinds of s**t that didn't make any sense. She threatened to sell my laptop, or pawn it, or whatever. She asked for my phone, though she had no reason to take it from me, saying my grandfather wanted it back if I was leaving. So I asked her to call him and let me talk to him.

 

     At this point, she knew she was in trouble. I'd caught her in the midst of all her lying glory. She refused to let me on the phone with my grandfather. She had her hands on my laptop and was halfway down the hall, so I chased her and snatched it from her. This computer was mine. It had all MY pictures, MY stories, and MY everything on it. I wasn't letting her take it.

 

     As soon as I had my computer, she had me in a hold. I couldn't move my arms, or anything other than my legs for that matter. Somehow, I managed to break her grasp, and let me tell you, I hauled a*s back to my room. But, of course, she chased after me. I was in tears by now, worse than I had been earlier in the evening. I screamed at her to go away and leave me alone, but she wouldn't. So I did all I could do.

 

     Maybe this wasn't the best decision, but I kicked her. I kicked her and pulled my door shut without a second thought. I didn't know what else to do... God bless the man who made my door without a lock! I had to stand there with one hand on my laptop and the other on my damned door, because she wasn't going to stop coming after me.

 

     Eventually, I gave up and she was able to pull the door open. I sat on the couch with my stupid computer and hid my phone under the couch cushions. I remember she kept asking and asking for my phone, but I could read between the lines. I knew my grandpa. I knew he didn't tell her that he wanted that phone back. He got that phone for me, not her. I wasn't budging.

 

     That woman didn't know when to f*****g quit. She kept fighting, trying to pry my laptop from my hands over and over. Finally, I pulled my phone out from under the cushions and attempted to call my step-dad. The first time, my mom threw the phone out of my hand and hung it up. But I got it back and tried again. Same result.

 

     What no one knows about, even now, is that third phone call that I tried to make. I was so desperate at this point, I dialed 911. And it just rang. And rang. And rang. And rang...

 

     "You're f*****g stupid if you think the police are going to help you!"

 

     Apparently, there were a lot of things I was "f*****g stupid" for. I was stupid for wanting to move out, stupid for being with a damn good man, for cutting myself because I had nothing left after she took it all, and for trying to call someone when I needed help.

 

     I hung up this time. I couldn't take what she was putting me through, but I wasn't going to get back at her by reporting her, which was my first mistake. My second mistake was calling the wife of the former pastor of the church where my mom was baptized.