(I haven’t written properly in a long time. So here goes something pretty impromptu.)
She tried to block the sounds out, but the words still formed meaning in her mind. She was bombarded with searing images of failure, of dissatisfaction and felt the unmistakable aftertaste of having brought great shame upon herself and those around her.
She studied her mug carefully. She traced the letters on the mug for the twentieth time, willing herself not to say or do anything.
But she imagined it. She imagined the feeling in her arms as she smashed the mug down on her face. Skull. Whatever could break many bones. Then maybe the mug would shatter, and she’d have something sharp to play with.
And she could imagine the initial shock on her face. Shock that her own daughter could hurt her. And perhaps shock at finally realizing that she’d lost her daughter for a long time.
She continued studying her mug. The small bumps of Homer Simpson’s speech bubble barely registered under her fingertips. And still the bombardment of shame and guilt attacked her ears. She didn’t even need to listen to what her mother was saying; it was the old spiel, the familiar speech of failure.
She became aware of how close she was to completely changing her life. In one swift movement and moment, her mother could be unconscious and dying on the floor, and she would stand over the bleeding body. Would she smile at the much delayed release? Or would she feel horror at what she’d done? If it was horror, it wouldn’t be that she hurt her mother, but that there would be lawful consequences.
She started planning what she’d do. After mashing her mother’s head in (she’d use the tile floor if she had to) she’d run downstairs. Her dad wouldn’t be home yet, so she’d have to tap out some sort of message to her friends, to the people that actually matter to her. She’d detail in that message how sorry she was it had to be like this, and that no one should be put to blame but her. She’d detail that her actions were solely by the influence of her mother.
She’d say goodbye, because she wouldn’t want to remain to allow her mother the pleasure of media attention. And surely there will be; a daughter doesn’t kill a mother often, and the news will be all over it. She doesn’t want her mother to be able to plead with her simpering ugly face that her own flesh and blood and turned against her, and she didn’t want to be portrayed as the bad guy. She wasn’t the bad guy.
Then she’d run back upstairs. She has to be quick. If her mother’s still alive then she would dial OOO. So she has to be fast.
She’d open the top drawer in the kitchen. There was one in there that her dad always kept sharp for cutting meat. In fact, she’d recently been nagging her dad to keep it sharp.
She’d planned it. She’d even envisioned it in her mind a million times.
It would hurt yes, but the satisfaction would be anaesthetic enough.
And then she put down her mug, stood up, and walked away. She went downstairs, calmly opened a new email, and sat there and wrote all of the things that ran through her mind to her friend. She cried while doing it, but she didn’t stop typing until she was done. Then she hit send, and with it buried away the feeling of being utterly trapped. It will come back again, but until then she can just keep sending it out.