My parents argued a lot at night.
I would hear them from my bedroom. My room was right above the staircase, so I could make out nearly every word. Mostly it was that my mom wanted my dad to stay home more. Stop traveling so much. I couldn’t blame her, because that was what I wanted too.
When I was sixteen, they had one of the worst arguments I ever heard.
They weren’t even trying to keep their voices down.
“It’s bad enough you were always leaving us to spend time with your floozies,” my mother shouted at him. “You’re always off having fun and I’m stuck here all alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he pointed out. She snorted. “I’d rather be alone.” “Don’t say that…”
My dad was the only one who ever defended me. Nobody else liked me. I hardly had any friends at school. Teachers complained I never participated in class and wouldn’t look them in the eyes. And my mom hated me.
“But this is lower than low,” my mom ranted on. “My own sister! How could you?”
“I’m not—”
“Liar!” There was a crash. My mom must’ve thrown something at him. “You tell her it’s over right now!”
“Helen… stop acting crazy…”
“Don’t tell me not to act crazy, you cheating asshole!” Another resounding crash, followed by shattering glass. “Get out of my house!”
“Fine!”
I winced as the door slammed shut. It wasn’t the first time he had stormed out, but each time, I thought it might be the last time. I couldn’t figure out why he ever came back. My mom was an awful person—she was
always accusing him of terrible things. Maybe he was sticking around for me.
But eventually, she would drive him away.
I stared up at the cracks in the ceiling of my dark bedroom. I hated my mother. She was driving away the only person who gave a damn about me. If I didn’t do anything, he was going to leave. Forever.
I thought about my father’s rifle. He kept it under the bed in the spare bedroom. What if I took it out and assembled it in the way he showed me? I could say I heard an intruder. Then my mom came out and I shot her by accident. What a tragedy.
Everyone would believe me. After all, why would I purposely shoot my own mother?
Could I do it though? I had shot at animals before, but never a person. Much less my mom. If it came down to it, would I be able to squeeze the trigger?
But that was the wrong question. If I had a gun in my hand and my mother was standing in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
As soon as the house was quiet, I crept out of my bedroom. I carefully made my way down the hall to the spare bedroom. My heart was beating very fast, but at the same time, I felt good. Really good. I didn’t realize how much I wanted to do this.
The spare bedroom was dark and the double bed was made up. I crouched down next to the bed and felt around until my fingers grazed the metal case. Bingo. I yanked it out from under the bed, my hands tingling in anticipation.
Until I saw the padlock on the gun case.
I cursed under my breath. No swearing was allowed in our home, but I learned at school. Anyway, I wasn’t going to be able to get to the rifle. So much for that plan.
I shoved the case back under the bed. My stomach growled loudly. I didn’t have enough for dinner. My mom made only a small portion of chicken, so I had about a quarter of what anyone else had. I was starving. If I told her how hungry I still was, she would have yelled at me that I was ungrateful. But now that she was in bed, I could go down to the refrigerator and sneak a snack.
I crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Our staircase was creaky. Each step sounded like a gunshot, especially the third one from the top. But my mom didn’t wake up.
I yanked open the refrigerator and looked at the contents. I felt hungry enough to eat everything in the fridge. I was skinny. Skinnier than any kid in my grade. The other kids teased me that I was a skeleton. When I took my shirt off in the gym locker room, you could count my ribs.
I made myself a sandwich. With roast beef from the good deli that my mom bought specifically for my dad. Muenster cheese. Lots of mayonnaise and Dijon mustard. My mouth watered looking at it.
But just as I sat down at the kitchen table, I heard the crash from upstairs.
It was coming from my mother’s room. I took a quick bite of my sandwich, then pushed my chair back and stood up again. What was she doing up there?
I took the stairs more briskly on the way up. My parents’ bedroom was at the end of the hallway. I listened for another sound. But it was quiet.
I carefully walked to the end of the hallway. Dimly, it occurred to me that maybe my mom had the key to the gun case. Maybe she thought I was the one driving my father away and she had the same plan I did. Pretend she heard an intruder, then blow me away.
Would she really do something like that?
When I got to her bedroom, I pressed my ear against the door. No sound. I rapped my fist against it.
“Mom?”
Again, no answer.
My stomach was doing flip-flops. Maybe she was just asleep. Except what was that loud crash?
I reached out and slowly turned the doorknob. The first thing I saw was the body sprawled out on the floor. My mom, right next to the bed. Passed out on the carpet, a trail of drool leaking from her lips.
I stared at her a moment. Why was she asleep on the carpet? And then I saw the pill bottles on the nightstand. Four of them.
I stepped over my mother’s body, and I took a closer look at the bottles. They were all empty. I picked up the first bottle. Take one pill for difficulty sleeping.
I sunk onto the bed as I realized what she had done. She took all the pills in the house. And now she was passed out on the floor, probably needing her stomach pumped like I heard Dan Chadwick did at the New Year’s Eve party I didn’t get invited to.
And if that didn’t happen, she would die.
I put the pill bottle back on her nightstand. I crept over her body and left the room, closing the door behind me. Then I went downstairs and finished my sandwich.
