Introductions
1025 Words
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
I groaned, reaching out to mute that treacherous sound. I just needed a little more time. My hand searched the end table and after a few seconds, I found the clock, smashing the snooze button. Fifteen more minutes. I haven’t been sleeping lately. I feel like an insomniac. My nights are either plagued with the sounds of my mom f**king whatever guy she can until she passes out or from the nightmares. I can’t escape my demons, even while I’m asleep.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
This time I reach out angrily, ripping the clock straight from the wall. That fifteen minutes didn’t leave me feeling any more refreshed. Sighing, I climbed out of bed to get ready for school. I crossed the hall, heading to the bathroom when I saw my mom laying in the doorway of her room. Passed out again. I rolled my eyes and walked over to her, checking for a pulse. Thankfully, she was alive, or as alive as you could be in her state. My mother was a h****n addict. She has been for the last ten years, or at least that is how long I’ve been aware of her addiction. In those ten years, she’s overdosed three times. Once when I was only eight years old. Stopping, I think back to that horrible day.
The bus dropped my off out front of my house. I was so excited to show my mom the clay flower pot I had made her in art class. We molded them by hand, the teacher cooked them in the kiln, and then we got to paint them. I painted a big heart on mine. Inside, the letters M+M. When I was little, momma used to joke that we were m&m’s, sweet like candy. I giggled looking down at the pot. I bust through the front door. “Momma, I’m home from school. I have a surprise for you!” I yelled. She didn’t respond, which was weird. I ran through the house “Momma, momma, I have a surprise for you. Where are you?” Still no response. I checked her bedroom. She wasn’t there. I checked my room. Not there either. I noticed the bathroom door closed and went to check there, but the door was locked. I knocked “Momma, are you in there?” No response. She had to be in there. The bathroom door was only ever locked when she went inside for privacy. I knocked a little harder. Still no response. I sat down outside of the door and started crying. Momma always told me if I had an emergency, to call 911, so I went down the hall and grabbed the phone off the wall, dialing those three numbers. RING, RING, “Hillsborough county emergency line, what’s your emergency?” a lady answered. “Hi. My name is Madeline and I can’t find my momma. Our bathroom door is locked and I think she’s stuck inside.” “Hi Madeline, my name is Jessica. Do you know your address?” she asked. I gave her our address and told her to hurry, I was worried about my momma. She thanked me for being so brave and asked me to go unlock the front door for the nice police men and paramedics coming. I did as she asked. “I hear sirens, ma’am, I think they are here. Thank you for helping me!” I said excitedly. “No problem Madeline, I hope your momma’s okay and you were really brave for calling us today.” She responded. I hung up the phone and ran to the door. The police man had me lead him to the bathroom, where he picked the lock, and found my momma, foaming from the mouth in the bathtub. I started crying again. The police man scooped me up, taking me away from her. The paramedics came rushing in, knocking my flower pot off of the counter. It shattered on the floor. The wheeled my mom away and into the ambulance. I rode with the nice police officer to the local CPS agency. He spoke with a woman there about what had happened. It was three months before my mom came back for me.
I took a deep breath. What a memory to have from your childhood. Nine years later, it still haunts me. After that day, nothing in my life was ever the same. I spent short stints with CPS. A few months here or there. Some foster parents were great, and some, not so much. My mother had tried to fill my head with promises about how much worse the foster system could be. You’re one of the lucky ones. So many foster parents abuse the children they receive, in more ways than you can even imagine. You kids, you are just a little paycheck to them. They’ll never love you like I do, she’d say. I never doubted that there were some horror stories, but my mother was no saint. Eventually the fear of things being worse overtook the fear of the life that I lived. I decided to try my hardest to stay as invisible as possible. To not call 911. To lie to the teacher’s when they asked about my home life. Lie about how hungry I was. To numb myself to everything around me, focusing on the fact that one day, this would all be over and I would make it out of here. Never looking back.
I snapped back to reality, looking down at my mother’s nearly lifeless body on the floor. I still didn’t understand why she continued to do this to herself. I grabbed her arms and dragged her towards her bed. I’d gotten better at this, and stronger, over the years. I hauled her body into her bed, checking again for a pulse. Grabbing her wrist, I felt the slow, but steady thump of her heart. Relief. After reassuring myself she was fine, I covered her with a blanket and trudged out of her room. I stopped in the doorway, looking back, wishing that things were different. For the both of us.
- Writer
