A Sea of Darkness
Disclaimer: See previous page
Rating: PG
Archive: Sure, email first
A/N: Black Beauty Belongs to Anna Sewell. I don't own Barbie. I don't own Barbies. Ok? My very first Fanfic.
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Chapter two: Summer Sky
People always think they know who I am. They take one look at me and think 'she who smokes and drinks and does other things that are ten times worse'. But, at 13, I was not like that. I probably would have been had I not a family I had to take care of. People just didn't know the real Abby behind all my sarcasm and toughness. It was the way I wanted it. It was the way I had to be.
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This is now set from 13-year-old Abby's POV
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She had done it again. Forgotten to take the medication. I am sick of having to try and get her to take it before she killed me. Really, she is a likable person, she has a great personality, and it wasn't the disease that makes her so crazy. It's due to a number of things. Like, I try not to be hard on her. It's not her fault she had what she had. But she isn't responsible. She doesn't take the medication. She drinks. When Dad left, she just ignored everything for like, a week.
It gets on my nerves.
I'm not a nice person when things get on my nerves.
"Mom." I say for the fifth time, "Take the medication."
"Abby." She says for the fifth time, "I don't need you to tell me how to live my life."
"I'm not. I'm just telling you to – "
"I don't need it."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"Fine." I give up. I know what's coming. It happens every week. Mom will freak out, chase us around for a bit, then drop everything and leave for a few hours. When she comes back, she's as good as new. By which I mean she's as good as she was before, and that's certainly not good.
Finding no sense in staying, I decide to go see what Eric's doing. It's always something. He's eight. He's a bit energetic.
Tonight was the night I had to say goodbye to Barbie before she managed to get melted in the microwave. Buhbye, Malibu Barbie. It wasn't like I cared.
"Hey Eric, do you have homework?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I – well, maybe a little bit. But it's math. I hate math."
Somehow, I recall that I said that too, when I was eight.
"So, you still have to do it. I'll help you." Five years later, I figured I could help out with his math.
"Okay." He reluctantly agreed. "But first, Josh has a date with the microwave."
"Hold it. What did you call that doll?"
"Josh."
"Uh." I tried to decide if he was old enough to be thinking like that. The doll was a girl, after all. It was quite obvious. This was Barbie.
"Josh is in my class at school. I don't like him. He's mean." Eric explained. I was quite relieved.
"What does he do to you?"
"He says our family is crazy and I was a mistake."
"Tell him to shove it. If he says it again, I'll punch him in the mouth." I said tiredly. I'm so used to having to do that to people. It was second nature to me.
"Okay." Eric usually agrees with me.
"And Eric, how about you leave the microwave alone and we can find something to eat?"
"Okay." I'm thankful he listens to me. He's like my shadow.
He follows me right into the kitchen and manages to knock right into me when I stop at the sink. The reason I stopped was because dishes were piled up in the sink, not done of course.
God, would it kill her to just do the damn dishes?
"Eric, find some bread or something, I'll be back." I tell him, guiding him by the shoulders to the cupboard.
I walk out to the balcony. The early-summer sky is just beginning to set. I like summer because there is more day than night. Also, there are some awesome thunderstorms in summer. You know, when they sky gets all grey and the air is sort of humid and then the thunder rumbles like the world is coming to and end? I like rain.
Summer is also good on account of school ends. We only had a week or so left. Then it was freedom. It was better for me, I could watch over the house more. There were no crappy teachers or stupid kids at home.
For most people, summer means vacations. There is no way in hell I'm ever leaving this city with this family again.
For instance, we were going out once, I forget where, I was only seven, and we had to take a plane. Airplanes are big and intimidating, but I was adventuresome and didn't think they were so bad.
Apparently, Mom did.
We never even took off. She had a freak-attack and almost killed one of the pilots or someone. And I have never heard someone say so many bad words in one hour. I was very embarrassed, obliviously, and so my resolution to never, ever go out in the summer.
Mom's there, out on the balcony, leaning on the railing, smoking a cigarette and holding a beer like it's the most important thing in her life. I'm surprised that she might have used to hold me or Eric like that. She's looking over the edge with a hopeless expression. I hear you, sister.
The bottom is very far down. When you look straight ahead, you can see the tops of a lot of the buildings around the block. It's very interesting to just sit and watch what goes on. I find you can learn much about life when you shut up, sit down and listen.
"Don't jump!" I say to her by way of greeting. I find that if I don't say anything threatening, she won't say anything threatening.
"Mmm." She answers. Okaaay, that's understandable. I'm going to translate it as 'I'm the worst bloody person in this horrible world' and my guess is I'm correct, judging on her expression.
"You shouldn't smoke." I tell her.
"I don't do it around you." She mutters.
"You used to. Remember when Eric – "
"What do you want?" She asks. I think I made her mad.
"The dishes are all dirty. Could you –" I decide against asking for help.
"Never mind. Enjoy your cigarette. Call me when you can't breathe."
"Abby!" she says sharply. I went too far. I know I'm not supposed to mouth off to adults, but I can't help it. It comes out before I can think.
Luckily for me, she's had five too many bottles o' beer, and therefore can't see straight or dislodge herself from the railing. Or else I'd be dead.
Edging my way inside, I find Eric peering at me nervously from the kitchen.
"Is she mad?"
"No."
"Is she crazy?"
"No."
"Is she – "
"Yes."
"Oh. Should we go to bed?" Poor Eric is terrified of Mom's little episodes. Frankly, I can't blame him. It is sort of scary when she waves a pair of scissors in your face and shouts until somebody comes to the door.
"Nope." I wave away his worried look with the wave of a hand. "We have dishes to do, dinner to make, and math to do."
"Great." Eric says. See, he takes after me. He already has my sarcasm. It took me thirteen years to get that.
Doing dishes is annoying unless you make it fun, as we often did. Nope, we didn't have any fancy dishwasher or anything. But we did have teamwork.
That must count for something.
I'd wash, and dry, and then toss the plate or whatever it was to Eric, who would put it away.
It was all going good until the plate fell. Either my toss was bad, the plate wasn't dry enough, or he didn't catch it. It fell to the ground with a very loud smash. When I turned around, the floor was literally glittering in shards of glass. I didn't figure it was a big problem. Apparently, it was.
"The plate fell!" Eric yelled at me. Since I sort of already knew that, I ignored him.
"Don't touch it. I'll clean it up." I told him. For once, he didn't listen to me, and the next thing I knew, there was blood on the floor along with glass.
"Eric! Dammit, why didn't you listen?" I rush over to him, yelping when I step on some glass. But, I'm going to ignore the pain until later.
"Sorry Abby! I didn't mean to!" Eric cries, close to tears. Sometimes, I can be pretty mean.
"Alright, its okay, it's okay. Come here and I'll help you. Where did you get cut?"
Eric holds up his hand. It doesn't look good. There's a nice looking cut, at least two inches long. And it bleeds. A lot.
But, I'm okay with blood. Taking a wet washcloth, I wrap it around his hand.
"Hold this on it for now, okay?"
"Okay." He agrees.
I find a broom and Eric finds a dustpan. We were sweeping the glass when Mom came in, swaying slightly and looking mightily pissed.
"What's going on in here?" she yells. Eric sort of hides behind my leg, which makes me feel mad that he should have to do that.
"We dropped a plate that you couldn't clean. Sorry we were doing all the housework and made a mistake." I say.
"Don't talk to me like that!"
"It's the truth!"
"Who dropped it?"
"I did." Eric says meekly. Suddenly, I can see something in my Mom's eyes that makes even me feel a bit nervous. It was rage, brought on by months of depression and self-pity, and that glassy look that alcohol will give you. Something snapped.
"Why can't you kids ever not break things? You're a goddamn nuisance!"
"We wouldn't break things if you would just –"
"Just what?"
"Take your medication, stop drinking, stop smoking, you name it!"
"Shut your mouth!" she says sharply. She does what I feared she would. That was taking a knife from the sink and waving it around dangerously. It was the first time she actually did what she threatened to do many times. That was 'one day I'm going to kill one of you'. I always took it as a mere threat, like, 'you'll have a year of detention' which never happened. I can tell you, when your own mother threatens you with a knife, you are very scared. What makes me even more scared is that she's not looking at me. She's looking at Eric.
She's sort of yelling incoherent words, or maybe I just have the good sense to tune them out. She must be really depressed.
Right now, I'm standing about a foot away from him. She sees this as an advantage and lunges at Eric.
"Abby!" If that won't break your heart, you are heartless. Eric is calling me, his big sister, for help from his mother. The sound of his fearful voice makes me want to kill my mom with a shard of glass.
I'm able to jump in front of him so that the knife slashes down my arm. It burns. But the pain only makes me madder. At the sight of my blood, Eric goes off crying. I don't blame him. I never would. I'm still standing in front of him.
Mom doesn't seem to care about us any more. As she smashes the rest of the dishes in the sink, I pull Eric to his bedroom.
"Listen." I state. "Stay in here and lock the door, alright?"
"Are you okay, Abby?" he asks fearfully.
"Of course." I lie. "How about I read you a story?"
"We were on chapter eight of Black Beauty."
"Okay."
He likes books too.
Twenty minutes later, I left the room, confident that all is well with Eric.
Mom is crying, I think. I don't know or care. She looks up when I walk by her, but doesn't say anything. She just heads off to her room.
This is when I feel the pain. Mental and physical. I'm so worn out. I go to the bathroom to fix my arm, which has only a shallow cut, not a deep one. But I look pretty stupid with bandage all up my arm. Which means I have to wear a sweater tomorrow. Which means I will be even more different than the rest of the kids in my school. Great.
You know how there are times, and you think, oh, whatever? But then when you look back, you remember those times and wish you could relive them, but you can't? Well, there were those times. I recall sitting out on the balcony, helping Eric with homework, faintly aware of the older kids playing basketball below us, watching the sun go down. Having Mom on a Good Day, when she was making dinner, and I was feeling, oh, what was it. Happy?
I wish I could feel that way four hours later.
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A/N: See the button, press the button.
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