Double-Sided Letters

Recollection of a Memory: SIDE B

But, of course, her mother found it completely unacceptable to want to walk outside during church.

So she had to wince through misplaced pins (which came often) and pull on nice-fitting dresses (which came less often) to please her mother, the audience of one that had more opinions that one million.

Please your mother, please the world, she whispered to herself on these occasions. It was like a mantra, something programmed into Catherine's mind that took her down the right paths.

Please your mother, please the world.

"Catherine, look at me when I'm speaking to you!"

Catherine did not do this, instead letting out a puff of exasperated air. Her mother gave a little (and very unimpressive) gasp of anger, standing up firmly and glaring at her daughter, who did not seem to understand the depth of the trouble she was in.

"Do you know," she began (cue death glare), "who feeds you-"

Yes, I do- you buy the groceries and put them on the table for me to put away.

"And clothes you-"

I do- you're too busy fixing your makeup and commenting on the neighbor's hedges. Once you even took me to school in pajamas.

"And keeps the money coming in (cue a demonstration of money coming in through rough hand motions) for us-"

The bank, who, by the way, wants you to pay our bills for the last 3 months 'we' neglected to give them.

"And, let's not forget, who bought you that nice camera to take your...(cue spastic arms)...nature photos with-"

Darn.

"Alright, Mom, I get it," she said resignedly. Lacey stared at her daughter, struck with surprise victory. She almost never won these sorts of things, which had made her start to feel more and more like the child in this relationship. "I'll be more respectful from now on, starting by wearing this-" she shuddered, "-dress."

"Well...good," her mother said slowly, walking out of the room with confusion (forgetting that her daughter was still plugged into a sewing machine).

Catherine shook her head and cut herself loose from the needle and thread hanging by her armpit. She began to uncomfortably wedge herself into the tiny black torture device, huffing and moaning in frustration as it moved against her spitefully.

"I hate you," she hissed. It twisted sharply around her waist in reply.

She glanced back to her file cabinet, feeling the habitual urge to run her hands over one of the images inside as if to rub life back into them. The cabinet itself was battered and bruised in all sorts of untouched areas. It stood by her desk with loyal conviction, like a terrible bodyguard (hence the injuries). She chose not to do this for one large reason: she was still starved. Starved for information, as she had said before, which she now firmly believed was a type of starvation, if there actually were types.

She sucked in all the air in her lungs and lumbered into her mother's room, peeking through the door first.

It was empty.

On three-

...one...two...

She poised to move...

three!

...but she didn't even budge.

four....five....six...seven— Oh, for god's sake!