She Used Liquor as Kindling | Teen Ink

She Used Liquor as Kindling

October 6, 2014
By KittyRose BRONZE, Cincinnati, Ohio
KittyRose BRONZE, Cincinnati, Ohio
4 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
"Skate hard, turn left."


“You must not tell anyone,” my mother said, “what I am about to tell you.”
Curiously, I peeked up from my meal, the dance of carrots and mashed potatoes coming to a close with a curtsy from the fork to the knife. My naked feet barely touched the floor from the chair before I hopped onto the hardwood floor.
“Come,” she instructed me, leading up the stairs with a flourish. Trotting quietly, I followed like an apostle to Judas for confrontation. Mother wove around corners, darted through doors, and maneuvered over clutter as if she were trying to lose me.
“Sit,” a familiar voice spoke from behind a pile of old stuffed animals, a feminine hand gesturing to the rickety rocker that once held the dreams of a family. I sat down, using my foot to gently rock and almost to keep me in the reality of the crowded room.
“Your father,” she crowed in her smoky voice, “left us for the nanny.”
“Yes mother,” I nodded, I knew this all before.
“Take heed, my dear, for all men are like him,” mother spat. She pulled a pack of Newports from the pocket of her skirt and lit one.
“But mother-“
“Do not question me in this,” She snapped, flicking the ash onto a lavender bunny, the smell of burning fabric filling the room like water. “They’re all heartless jerks that just want to get you in bed so they can ruin your life.”
“Yes mother,” I nodded looking at the smoldering rabbit, wondering if it was a man, and if so, what he did to anger her.
“That’s all that matters in this world; how you are in bed and how much cash you carry on hand,” she pressed the rolled tobacco to her lips, inhaling the dark smoke and forcing it out through her nose like a dragon, “Unfortunately, I wasn’t good nor was I wealthy.”
“Then why did daddy marry you?” I asked, wishing for an answer that she would never say.
“You,” mother answered, looking blankly into my eyes, “We were supposed to stay together for the kid.”
Eventually, she calmed down to be able to carry me out of the playroom. Her bare feet sunk into the layers of trash, flies kissing her grey roots as she shielded me from the horrors. Finally, she put me on the front porch and locked me out. That was the last time I saw my mother before the house caught on fire.


The author's comments:

I was given a list of first lines to use to start a story, so I selected "You must not tell anyone what I am about to tell you" since I believed it had an interesting tone to the whole plot. This story isn't about the perils of being a single mother, it's about the perils of never speaking about how you truly feel until it's too late.

 
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