day after day

Claire, a sixteen year old girl, struggles with her home life and wanting to be with her boyfriend, yet not being "allowed."

I looked out the window and it was still storming outside. The storm had been lasting basically all day, and I wondered if it would ever stop. The clouds seemed somehow darker than they were earlier, and the thunder was loud enough to shatter the glass in my hand. I heard footsteps, and my mom walked into the kitchen, lighting a cigarette. Her hair was like mine, dark black and straight. I always hated everything about my hair; how it was thin and lacked volume; how it was blunt and boxy against my shoulders. 

“Claire!” My mother shouted behind me, startling me from my thoughts. I sat my glass down on the cold kitchen counter, and my hands were shaking. When my mother shouted at me, it was like she was someone else. Her smiles became non-existent, and I got the growing feeling that all of the happiness and pride for me is actually all just a facade. For what, I didn’t quite know…but it was there. 

“Clean this stupid mess of a kitchen up!” She shouted again, gesturing to the bowls, pans, and assortment of mixing utensils piling up in the sink. The counters were clean; however, there wasn’t a spot of flour on the wooden floors. I was still waiting for the cookies to be done, though it was sad Peter never got to take any with him. 

“Sorry,” I said instinctively, even though part of me wasn’t. I was going to start on the dishes after all the baking was actually done. “Peter and I made cookies, if you want any when they are done,” I said politely, putting my glass next to the sink. I hoped that my tone would be redeeming of the mess I made. 

“Who the hell is Peter?” She screamed at me, as I started to grab the soap. It fell out of my hands and into the cookie-battered bowl. I tried to regain my breath before I answered her. She knew who Peter was for sure, they’d even met on multiple occasions. 

“You know him.” 

“And yet I didn’t know he was here!” Somehow, her voice got even louder. I tried to rinse the cookie dough off the soap, but my hands were shaking immensely. Just be still, I tried to will myself. 

“We talked about this last week!” I regretted raising my voice even a tad, as my mother came closer to me. I knew what was coming if I kept talking back to her---or talking at all. 

“And does his parents know that he was here?” She asked me more aggressively. But thankfully, she didn’t take any more steps closer, to where I was furiously trying to clean a plate. 

“Yes, of course, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Your…boyfriend?” She asked me, her voice becoming quieter. She knew that Peter was my boyfriend, and that he was coming over today because his parents could not pick him up until two hours after his tennis practice. We had talked about it last week, and my mother told me that we should bake something when he’s over. So that’s what happened, and yet here she was claiming that this conversation didn’t take place. “So is that what you did then? You fooled around when I was in a meeting?”

“No, I’m only sixteen.” I shook my head as I put the plate out on the drying rack. Peter and I were definitely not even close to there yet…at least, I wasn’t. 

“Perfect age for some idiot to get you pregnant.” She said taking a few steps closer to me. She’s only saying that because that’s when she got pregnant with me. And she regrets every second of it. She hated me from the moment I was born---maybe even before then. “Break up with him immediately, he won’t serve you any good.” My breath hitched. I would not break up with Peter, I loved him and I never had felt anything like it before. He saw all my imperfections as adorable, lovable qualities, unlike some people. He made me feel like I actually fit somewhere in this world, when at home, I feel like the only place I'd fit in would be a coffin. 

“No,” I say, raising my voice. I placed a spatula down back on the counter and I started to walk out of the room, silently. She shouldn’t get to control my life, and I should be able to love who I want. 

She grabbed me by the wrist, and I tried to pull away, but her grip was powerful when she wanted it to be. She placed her hand around my neck and pushed me up against the kitchen wall. My words came out as mumbling gasps, and I should’ve known not to waste my air on stupid, unimportant nonsense. I wasn't not sure if I'd breathe again, and I'd be replaying this moment over and over in my head digging myself further than six feet underground. My mother let go of me after a few seconds, and she pushed her cigarette butt into my neck. I shrieked out in pain, the ash was searing hot on my raw skin, and I felt like I was dying. 

I ran from the kitchen and down into the musty basement, where my room was. I raced inside the cramped space, and locked the door behind me. The lock on my door had been broken so many times, I wasn’t even sure if it worked anymore. I pushed my only chair in front of the door and tied one of my ties that I continue to hide from my mother, on my floor to the door knob, in a contraption that would keep me locked in here for the strength of the worn fabric. 

I ripped off my least favorite shirt. It was yellow, an atrocious color, and it was low cut down to the chest I didn’t have. My mother liked the shirt, and she expected me to wear it often, as well as many others like it. It showed off the "only beautiful parts of me", and this way she could see if I was actually skinny. I wasn’t. My body was one hundred and two pounds and I still wasn’t skinny enough for her. 

I grabbed my baggy black sweater from my floor, and threw it over my head. I slid off my baggy jean shorts; nothing really fit me anymore. I snatched my favorite pajama pants from my hamper. They were dark green and gray, and as I lay on the floor of my messy room, I felt somehow like myself in a world where I was trapped to be someone different. Someone who was beautiful, who didn’t have severe anxiety, or was poor. Peter had everything, and I had everything with Peter. I wasn’t going to give that up. But my body was about ready to, as I slowly faded from consciousness. 

Author's Note

I wrote this story last June, and decided to post it now. It's originally part of a bigger story, and I'm not sure if I should continue it or not.