"I'm sick of how you two fight. You're glad he's gone! Why don't you love
him?" she screamed, kicking a piece of glass across the floor, "Why don't
you love me?"
"Shut up Sarah," the mother replied.
"Why? Go ahead, make it all my fault. It always is, isn't it mum? Dad was never like this before I was born. If I stopped breathing the world would be a better place!"
"You don't know how hard it is trying to support a family of a waitressing job," the older woman yelled.
"And what else on the side?" her daughter spat venomously.
"Nothing you haven't done to support that stupid habit you have! How much does that boy pay you?"
"You bitch! You fucking bitch!" she shouted.
"Don't call me that you stupid whore. I'll be so glad in a few years when you can move out!"
The glass bowl she threw shattered against the wall above her daughter's head.
"How can you call me a whore mother? What do you do after work?" she screamed back.
"That feeds you, you ungrateful slut!"
This time it was a vase that wasn't as far of the target.
She was drenched in cold water as it hit her in the stomach and shattered at her feet.
"How can I call you my mother?" she cried, picking up the stack of dinner plates on the bench and throwing them to the floor.
"Fuck you Sarah!"
"Fuck yourself lady!"
"Don't talk like that," her mother hissed as she hurled an empty bottle of Jack Daniels across the room.
"I'm sick of this shit!" she spat, picking up a large shard of glass and flung it across the room toward her mother.
It glanced off the other woman's arm, leaving a bloodied red scratch.
She smiled in satisfaction and picked another up.
"Don't you dare, you little bitch!" her mother snapped, picking up the knife lying on the kitchen bench.
"You wouldn't dare," challenged the daughter.
"Oh wouldn't I?"
Before she knew what had happened, a searing pain burned in her chest. Looking down, she saw her shirt cut. A deep gash ran across her right breast.
She stared at her mother in shock, taking two steps backwards through the broken glass and splintered wood.
"Don't bother mother," she stated evenly, drawing the large shard of glass she was going to throw, "I'd rather do it myself."
She raised the shard and eyed it wondrously. Then she extended her left wrist and slashed across, leaving a gash with blood oozing from it. She placed the glass in her left hand and carved a fissure into her other arm.
"I hate you!" yelled her mother.
"I hate you too," she smiled, "I want to die."
Smiling again, she tramped out of the room, ran down the front stairs and grabbed her skateboard. She was skating along the main road before she collapsed onto the pavement, her chest and wrists still bleeding.
"Why?" she sobbed, tears running into the pool of blood drenching her hair, "Why, why, why?"
Mac woke up with tears in her eyes.
* * * * * *
"Shut up Sarah," the mother replied.
"Why? Go ahead, make it all my fault. It always is, isn't it mum? Dad was never like this before I was born. If I stopped breathing the world would be a better place!"
"You don't know how hard it is trying to support a family of a waitressing job," the older woman yelled.
"And what else on the side?" her daughter spat venomously.
"Nothing you haven't done to support that stupid habit you have! How much does that boy pay you?"
"You bitch! You fucking bitch!" she shouted.
"Don't call me that you stupid whore. I'll be so glad in a few years when you can move out!"
The glass bowl she threw shattered against the wall above her daughter's head.
"How can you call me a whore mother? What do you do after work?" she screamed back.
"That feeds you, you ungrateful slut!"
This time it was a vase that wasn't as far of the target.
She was drenched in cold water as it hit her in the stomach and shattered at her feet.
"How can I call you my mother?" she cried, picking up the stack of dinner plates on the bench and throwing them to the floor.
"Fuck you Sarah!"
"Fuck yourself lady!"
"Don't talk like that," her mother hissed as she hurled an empty bottle of Jack Daniels across the room.
"I'm sick of this shit!" she spat, picking up a large shard of glass and flung it across the room toward her mother.
It glanced off the other woman's arm, leaving a bloodied red scratch.
She smiled in satisfaction and picked another up.
"Don't you dare, you little bitch!" her mother snapped, picking up the knife lying on the kitchen bench.
"You wouldn't dare," challenged the daughter.
"Oh wouldn't I?"
Before she knew what had happened, a searing pain burned in her chest. Looking down, she saw her shirt cut. A deep gash ran across her right breast.
She stared at her mother in shock, taking two steps backwards through the broken glass and splintered wood.
"Don't bother mother," she stated evenly, drawing the large shard of glass she was going to throw, "I'd rather do it myself."
She raised the shard and eyed it wondrously. Then she extended her left wrist and slashed across, leaving a gash with blood oozing from it. She placed the glass in her left hand and carved a fissure into her other arm.
"I hate you!" yelled her mother.
"I hate you too," she smiled, "I want to die."
Smiling again, she tramped out of the room, ran down the front stairs and grabbed her skateboard. She was skating along the main road before she collapsed onto the pavement, her chest and wrists still bleeding.
"Why?" she sobbed, tears running into the pool of blood drenching her hair, "Why, why, why?"
Mac woke up with tears in her eyes.
* * * * * *