Reincarnation

As my science teacher is droning on and on about mitosis, I am fiddling with my pen. I don’t want to go home. I never do. It’s not like I can just go over to a friends house though. I hear the dreadful sound of the trilling bell. I grab my things and make my way of of the building.

I always say that walking home from school is the worst part of the day. School is okay. I have no friends. Though, I enjoy certain classes. Art is my favorite. Getting home is a complete new story.

I walk through the creaky door to find a dark, empty, sad house. I throw my bag over the couch and begin to walk upstairs. I sit down and look at the picture of my father next to my bed. I thought about the good times. You know, when he was alive.

He died when I was 8. I am 16 now. It’s hard to think of all that time without him. I miss him. I hear the door slam and a grumbling, drunk mother walk through door. Sighing, I walk out to be greeting by my mother yelling into a small cell-phone I bought her.

She yelled into the object things such as, “I hate you!”, “You’re trash!”, “You don’t deserve me!”.  I assume she was breaking up with a recent boyfriend. She gets a new one every week. She never has a job. I do. I pay for everything. I do everything. She is an alcoholic who doesn’t deserve to be called my mother.

But this time, I have a plan. I am going to tell her how it is. I have to be like an adult. I hate it. Ever since dad died, she has been this way. I can’t handle it anymore. I do everything, and have never even had a chance to be a kid.

I am empty. My heart has hurt so much it burned out. I start following her into the kitchen as she throws a pan toward me.

“Ah! This kitchen is so dirty! What are kids good for if they don’t even do anything? Huh! What do you even do?! You are a worthless piece of trash and you don’t deserve to be here. God! To think I spent 4 hours in labor to produce such a stupid piece of trash! I hate you!”, she screams. I listen closely, not caring anymore.

1...2...3…

Now I lose it. I blow up. I am screaming everything I’ve ever felt at her. All the pain. All the sadness, the darkness, the loneliness, the betrayal. All of it. I screamed at her everything in my empty heart. I let it all out on her.

Now, panting, I stared at her beady eyes. Those beady eyes were livid. Filled with anger. She slapped me. She slapped me. In all of these years, she has never hit me.

As I’m I lay on the ground she kicks my stomach, making me yelp in pain. She noctinues kicking until I can barely breath.

“Get out of my sight!”, she screams as I’m scrambling and running to our small laundry room.

Even with her being an absolute excuse of a mother, she has never hit me. Ever. This is now the first time my mother has ever hit me. I am getting up and running to the bathroom as the searing tears pour.

I can’t deal with this anymore. 8 years was enough. But this is too far. I can’t do this. It’s all too much. I turn on the bath and grab the box of razor blades from the cabinet.

Crying, I get into the tub and pull up my sleeves. I slowly press the blade into my arm. The pain is excruciating but worth it. I needed to die. I had to. I can’t do this anymore.

I slid the blade into my other arm as pain shoots through my body. My breath is quickening as the overflowing water is turning pink. I am finally dying. The light goes out in my eyes as they slowly close. I see a bright white light as I am pulled into a hospital room. I start screaming in the arms of a young nurse. I feel unnatural in my new, tiny body. The light gets brighter as the pain of the past is forgotten forever.