Bury Me - Tara Sivec Page 0,33
in.”
The door opens and my mother steps in, staring down at the floor instead of at me.
“Dr. Beall is here for your check-up,” she tells me in a dull monotone voice. “He’ll be up soon; he’s chatting with your father right now.”
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t come near me for her usual pat on the head, and doesn’t flutter about my room, picking up things and putting them away. She also doesn’t fill the awkward silence, while we wait for Dr. Beall to make his way up the staircase, with useless, happy chatter about the weather and what her plans are for the day, or suggestions for things I could do to keep me busy. She’s been so over the top with her cheerfulness and doing whatever she can to pretend that what happened in this room the other day never occurred that I’ve gotten used to it, and it comes as a complete shock to see her like this. I don’t remember ever seeing her without makeup, but it’s obvious she isn’t wearing any now. I can see the dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, and the wrinkles and blemishes that are no longer hidden with her usual thick layer of pan-cake foundation.
For the first time since I can remember, my mother looks old and tired. She looks every bit of her forty years of age, possibly even older than that if I stare at her long enough.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, even though it’s glaringly obvious something is wrong with her.
“I’m fine, just feeling under the weather,” my mother answers, still not making eye contact.
My dreams last night were filled with pain and hurtful words, scathing looks, disappointment, and outright hatred with flashes of my parents’ faces aiming all of this unkindness right at me, their daughter. I can’t ignore that and I can’t just push aside what I feel deep down inside: that all of this is wrong. My life, my actions, my past…my entire being feels wrong and I know it all started the morning I woke up, disoriented and confused. A minor head injury with sporadic memory loss shouldn’t make me feel like a completely different person than who I’m supposed to be.
I realize as I stare at my mother that I’m not concerned about her well-being in the least. I’m not worried about her nor do I even care what’s going on with her. The only reason I asked if something was wrong is because the silence was getting on my nerves, and I had to say something. I know it’s mean and heartless that I don’t care about my own mother, but sitting here looking at her, I feel like something shifted inside of me last night and I didn’t even fully realize it until just now. Staring at this woman standing in my doorway, I feel nothing but hatred. It’s come and gone at different times over the last week and it’s always made me feel guilty and ashamed, but not now. I don’t even have the desire to try and push it away this time. Just like swimming, it feels right and like something I’ve always done. It feels natural to detest this woman and it makes me feel good. I welcome the anger and the hatred. I crave it, feed off of it, and I’m no longer scared of these feelings.
I barely hear her answer because my mind is occupied with other things. The overwhelming animosity I finally allow to break free and take over, instead of trying to suppress it, makes me feel alive. It makes me want to take it and run with it, revel in it, punish the ones who have hurt me and make them pay. I’m filled with anger and hate; it lives inside of me and I love it. I have always loved it and I’ve never been ashamed, no matter who tried to make me think otherwise.
“I’m doing this for your own good. It will all be over soon.”
My hands clench into fists in my lap, and my fingernails dig painfully into my palms as I imagine what it would be like to punch my mother in the face: the feel of the bones in her nose snapping beneath my knuckles, bright red blood dripping down over her lips and off of her chin. I smile to myself, imagining the feel of that warm, wet liquid dripping down my hands.
I went into the water last night a confused girl who refused