To Only You, My Mother

Hey Mom, me again.

They said you could hear me, so I already read you the following. But, well, if you wake up and don’t remember, I want you to know why you’re here…

It’s funny. I can talk to you more now than I ever could when you looked back at me. Able to respond.

You weren’t doing anything to stop him. Condoning walking on eggshells daily followed by nights of abuse. I couldn’t do it anymore. You won’t hear me say I’m sorry for taking care of him.

I learned early on that you didn’t have the time or ability to change the world I was living in. You wouldn’t protect us; you wouldn’t even help us cope properly. “He isn’t touching you,” was the defense. As though the verbal abuse followed by negative sensory overload didn’t take enough of a toll.

“Others had it worse,” I often find myself saying now when questioned why I talk about it as though it was nothing.

I’m getting off track, though. Why you’re here.

Well, enough was enough.

The plate got a little too close to my head that final night. The shattered pieces lay on the floor as Dylan came running in unknowingly. Blood ran from his foot, and his screams brought on another shattered glass. “Clean it up, you stupid whore. And get that cut clean and bandaged. The school better not call me tomorrow about you walking funny. I’m not dealing with it.” He shouted in our direction as he stormed out the door.

I got to work. I’d come to find beauty in broken glass as its jagged edges reflected in my hand.

Dylan stood stunned as normal, blood still dripping from his foot. He asked me how I could continue to put up with this. I guess, if I’d been sheltered from it until recently, I’d also still have an involuntary body reaction. After 17 years, though, my nerves were desensitized. So all I could do was shrug as I continued moving the broken pieces from the floor to the garbage.

But I was pissed off. The wheels were already turning in what to do. Dylan couldn’t be involved, that I was certain. I honestly wasn’t sure if he’d be able to live with the consequences. He’s my younger brother; someone had to protect him. I knew if anyone were going to be a punching bag, it’d soon be him. The violence was escalating, and once he reached the point in life where he got a backbone to stand up. I didn’t want to think about what could happen.

No, it was better for everyone, including you, mom, if I did it.

I had a couple hours, even if it was an early night. He wouldn’t be home from the bar until at least 10 o’clock. You’d be knocked out from a concoction of sleeping pills and chardonnay.

I waited up. Midnight. One. Two. A late night.

I’d considered taking it as a sign that it was not the right night. Then the door slammed. He was trashed; he didn’t even press his fob to lock the car door as he stumbled up the walkway to the front door. An approving grunt escaped him as he jiggled the door handle discovering you’d left the door unlocked. It wasn’t enough, though. He was muttering under his breath, calling you anything he could think of, all because the outside light wasn’t on.

I waited for the anger to build, listening to his impudent remarks. But nothing came. I was the definition of calm. Then I saw his face.

You should have seen the look in his eyes. It took him a couple of inebriated moments to realize what was going on. By which point, the knife was already penetrating him.

I’m really not sure why he didn’t yell. However, this I did take as a sign. As though he was accepting his fate. It wasn’t until he was on the floor and the last gurgle escaped him that I realized I didn’t know what I would have done had the attack woken Dylan.

It was all over. All of it. He was never going to darken any of our days ever again.

The walk back from disposing of my clothes in the alley behind the house happened in a daze. I was exhausted.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been wearing the smile I couldn’t get rid of as I slipped into bed. But there it was, and there it stayed.

You know, that may have been the most restful sleep I’d had in years, and it’s continued every night since.

Dylan’s screams jolted me awake, causing the reality of our new lives to catapult into existence. I heard you catching your bearings as your sleepy body made your way to the kitchen. I burst out of my room, “what’s wrong?”

Dylan looked at us as though we were monsters—do you remember?

“Call 9-1-1,” was all he could get out as he stood over the man whose DNA now only lived on through our veins. He snapped his head back at us, “now.”

I let you move first, maintaining a forced look of shock as I took a couple of steps forward before sitting against the hallway wall. Dylan and I locked eyes again for a moment. He was trying to peer into my soul. Read my mind and determine if I was capable of doing this.

An ambulance and police car arrived within minutes, shortly followed by the coroner. The questions began flowing towards each of us, all with similar alibis. Each explaining our variations of the events the night before. Finishing our renditions with how we went to bed, not to stir again until Dylan’s voice started our day.

Remember the following days? Yeah, I know you probably don’t. What used to be a glass or two a night had transformed into two bottles a day minimum. If you weren’t sleeping, you were, on another level, gone. Of course, everyone grieves differently, but you really didn’t help your case. You were coming across as guilty, and I couldn’t help but wonder if you did feel responsible somehow.

I had to do it; it was the only way I could assure mine and Dylan’s futures—your fingerprints were the only ones on the knife.

It had only taken you four days to drink yourself into a coma. Making them a day late with the arrest warrant.

The cops consider the case closed, but they’re still at the top of the list for notification if you wake up. Even all these years later. Initially, we'd expected you to wake up after a few days. But those hopes had long disappeared.

I can’t say I’m sorry to you, mom. But this is my farewell; I can’t risk sticking around the area or coming back here. Dylan’s old enough now. He started into that welding program he’d been talking about offered at school. Remember the one dad called stupid. He graduated last year, and his career is taking off. He’ll be more than ok.

As for me, that’s a secret I’ll be holding on to.

With all the love I have left for you,

Your daughter