You Can't Break Her

Twenty| Rabid animal & Twenty-one| Closed doors

July 1996

It was a lovely afternoon, the sky was a pleasant shade of azure. The sun was blinding as it reached its highest point. There were no clouds in sight to provide shade from the ball of fire that raged above. A warm breeze floated through the trees. It went unnoticed by the cars that zipped down Main Street.

I burst into the restaurant holding a brown paper bag. The doors swung back as far as I could force them to. My brunette bob flowed as I scanned the restaurant. There was no line, so I ran up to the young man behind the counter, placing the bag in front of him.

Still panting from the jog over, I composed myself long enough to speak. "I was just here with my Mom. The lettuce in my salad isn't any good," I explained, nudging the bag closer to him.

He pulled it towards himself, opening the bag to inspect the salad. After a few seconds, he gave me a puzzled look. "This isn't a salad."

My facial expression turned from exhaustion to terror. I knew I was going to pay for this mistake. I clamped my hand around the items. Then spun on my heel, sprinting into the parking lot.

Just then, my mother walked around the corner.

Her chestnut-coloured eyes were almost red with rage. Her eyebrows furrowed deeply into the centre of her forehead. Her mid-back-length, mahogany hair flowed behind her as she rigidly approached me. Her lips pursed so tightly it caused the surrounding area of her face to lighten in colour. Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

I knew those fists were meant for me. If I had been a foot closer, she would not have held back. Heart jumping in my chest, I thought it might leap out of my body. My saliva retreated, leaving a barren desert in my mouth. I looked between my mother and the bag that was tucked under my arm. I tossed the paper sack a few feet away from her, in the opposite direction I was planning to run.

I ran a hundred feet to our front door. I continued through to the kitchen at the other end. I positioned myself on the other side of the dining table. My breathing was hard to catch from the run. Every time I tried to regulate it, I would choke. The sweat that dripped down my forehead reached my eyes, making them burn.

She would arrive any second, upset with me, as always. I had learned from experience that asking questions only made things worse. She was mad, which meant I would be the target of her outburst, as always.

My mother stomped into the house like a massive, wild beast. This woman weighed around 140 pounds and was more terrifying than any rabid animal.

"You thought you could run away from me? Did you think I wouldn't notice you took my food back to the store?" she screeched, holding her fists so tightly that her hands were white.

"No, Mom!" I cried as I darted back and forth on the other side of the kitchen table, trying to find an escape. "I swear, I didn't mean to bring yours back." I circled the table to avoid her when she tried to run around to me. "Please, I won't do it again." I was stalling for time, my only option.

"I don't want to hear your excuses! When I get my hands on you, you're going to be sorry." She punched her fist into her open hand. Staring me down, watching for signs that I might run.

"Please, Mom, I didn't-"

"No more!" she screamed. "No more fucking lies! Come here so that we can get this over with," she said, trying to coerce me into her web of explosive anger.

My muscles ached from tensing while she yelled at me. "No."

"What did you just say to me?" She grabbed a wooden spoon, slapping her palm.