Consumed

Prologue: Meri

I stare down at the knife in my hand. It'd be so easy. So easy to just drag it across my wrists and be done with all of it. I want to be done. My eyes meet my reflection's in the dingy glass mirror, then drop down to the worn, rusting handles of the sink.

Her screaming comes from downstairs, floating through the bathroom door. "You brat! You ungrateful little b—"

I close my eyes and tune the words out. She calls me all kinds of bad names. Harlot and whore are hardly the worst I've heard from her. Perhaps the worst thing about this is that I believe her. I can't help it. She's my mother. She raised me. If anyone knows who or what I am, she does. She's right about me now. I wasn't always like this. But ever since that one day, I've been that person. And there's nothing I can do about it.

It wasn't always like this. I remember, just barely, what it was like when I was on better terms with my mother. She's never been the most loving parent. No, she's always working and sleeping. If she isn't doing that, she's watching TV. Or, that's how it was until about seven years ago when I turned ten.

She used to do a small batch of cupcakes or muffins for me every year on my birthday. Yeah, they were usually burned — she's a horrible cook — but she tried. It meant so much to me. I still remember the day I came home from school to find the kitchen empty.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, playing with a letter and staring down at the wood. Her hair wasn't brushed, and her makeup was all over her face. Mascara was smeared down her cheeks in streaks and trails. Tears stained her face, and her eyes were red.

It was the first day she hit me.

I could smell the alcohol on her, and I just didn't understand. She'd never been like this before. She'd been distant or depressed, yes, but never abusive. She'd turned a cold shoulder, but I'd never seen the angry, fiery side of her.

It was the first time I was afraid of her and afraid to say anything.

At ten years old, I honestly believed I'd done something wrong. That I'd made a mistake bad enough for her to punish me with more than just a time-out. Something so horrible that she'd decide not to make my birthday cupcake, yell at me, and hit me.

Seven years later, I still think it's my fault. I did something to make her snap.

I've been trying ever since to make her happy.

When she got a job at a local bar and started bringing in a new boyfriend every week, I tried to be good. I made their food, cleaned, and one time, I even set up a candle-lit dinner for her and a boyfriend who was okay and hung around for more than a few days.

She'd yelled at me for using the candles without permission, raged about the slightly burnt lasagna, and sent me to my room with a dire look, which promised a beating to come. I never saw the boyfriend again.

He left. Just like every other person left her. Except me. I stay.

I stay because I believe there's a good woman in there somewhere. She was a kind, but distant, woman before. Surely that person is still there. I don't know what caused the change, and whatever I did, I still can't figure it out.

But maybe if I left, she'd be happier. She told me as much just minutes ago.

If you hadn't been born, my life wouldn't be so miserable. You're just one more mouth I have to feed off of an insufficient income. Her angry screams chase me down dark corridors in my mind.

She's right. She'd make more money for herself if I wasn't such a burden. I always eat more than I should and make her life harder. Maybe if I didn't go to school? Or if I ate less?

Those things never help. It doesn't matter if I go without food for a few days straight. She always finds something wrong. If I die, she'll be happier. I know it.

No. No... I can't do that to her. Other words that have come from her lips well up in my mind. You're the last person left who hasn't deserted me. Don't you dare leave... I need you to be here for me even when I'm hard to deal with. Those words came on the few occasions when she wasn't stoned or mindlessly drunk. I'm not sure which side of her is the real one, but I think maybe it's the kinder side. She's not evil. Just hurting and lost.

Rather than allowing her criticism of me to destroy me, I've got to use it to get better. To find a way to show her I'm helpful. That way, she'll see that she doesn't need the drugs or alcohol because she'll always have me. I'll stay and be there for her so she doesn't kill herself.

Resolved, I put away the knife. Every time that I consider using it to end my life, I stop. I stop because I'm the only anchor she has. The only regular thing in her life. Even if our relationship is bad, it's still there. We have room to improve, but I'm sure we can.

You can't. She's not stable, Meri. She snapped seven years ago, and nothing you do can improve her broken state. I glare at my reflection in the warped mirror of our bathroom. "How can you say that about anyone?" I whisper to myself. "Everyone can be fixed. I just have to find the right solution for her first. Then I can glue her back together with love. Anyway, she's just cracked. Not broken."

My inner voice sneers at me, but I push it away. I'm becoming better and better at that. The last seven years have been a whirlwind of self-loathing, fear, and pain. I've become adept at refusing to let my emotions out or acknowledge the ones that hurt most.

Doubting her hurts because she's the only thing I have left. Perhaps that's the real reason I never go through with the suicide. I need something familiar, and I lack the courage to cross that line between contemplating and committing suicide. Because for me, there will be no one to save me. If I decide to end it, no one will come to help or bring me back from the brink of death. If I decide I'm done, I'll die.