567. 568. 569.

April smirked as she thought about the last two digits of the previous number.

570. 571. 572.

"Darling, how many times are you planning to trace the outline of that plate anyway?"

April sighed in response to her worried mother and didn't bother to look up. It wasn't like she was missing anything anyway. Her mother was only washing the dishes for the millionth time this day; it was what she always did when trying to confront her daughter about her unfortunate circumstances. But there was a point to the washing at the moment, since a silent dinner had just terminated itself, and all that was left to scrub was the one plate April was so incredibly infatuated with.

"600," she answered.

Her mother paused, chewing on a hangnail, for it was one of her numerous annoying habits.

"Why 600?"

"Because that's how many pounds I weigh."

"It is not!" her exasperated mother shrieked, eager to defend her daughter from—well—herself.

"It's what I look like," April continued to mope, letting her finger follow the plate's contour continuously. "There."

"There what?"

April beamed victoriously. "600."

Her mother had succeeded in ripping her hangnail completely off using solely her teeth.

"You're being ridiculous. Stop it, now."

April smirked at the weak attempt of discipline.

"Or you'll what?"

There was a predictable pause and April's mother busied herself by washing the already sparkling dishes. The water splashed onto the cracked, insect infested kitchen floor as she dove her chapped hands into the suds. April was used to this choppy, uptight behavior coming from her caffeine addicted mother just as her mother had grown accustomed to her daughter's bipolar reactions. The enraged form was usually dominant and an explosion was destined to occur anytime now.

"Your consular called," her mother put in sheepishly, trying to instill some of the calming virtues Mr. Golsop had tried so hard to embed in her daughter.

"Good for him. He can dial nine digits."

"That's not what I was trying to imply."

April's mother fought the dire urge to smash the gray chipped plate that the problem child had so relentlessly occupied herself in tracing.

It turned out she didn't have to. April performed the task for her.

"It's not like he helps me anyway!" the teen screeched as she bolted upright, knocking the chair over while doing so. Her veins became clearly evident through out her face, for they showed like green snakes under her zit-stained complexion. If Runty were present, she would have most definitely referred to the latter as a mutant.

In response to the much expected, yet still abrupt, shouts of the obese female, April's mother plastered on a fake smile and said in a mock sugary sweet tone, "Baby, don't clench your fists so hard. Your nails have a tendency to leave scars."

"I don't give a flying shit about my scars!"

April was referring to both the accidental and purposeful scars. Mr. Golsop had meandered his way into her life first by her hashing urges. It took two years before he realized he would never succeed in making his patient a reformed cutter since she simply refused to drop the habit. But he still insisted on coming by once a week trying to crack the source of the problem. When he found out that this single parent family had unfortunately formed itself before April was even born, he was certain that the only reason for the razor blade using could be her weight. But like most clueless counselors, he was completely off track and too stupid to even realize it. Besides, April had no intentions of stopping her cutting any time soon regardless if the cause was obvious.

"Don't start this again . . ." her mother's voice trailed off into oblivion, leaving room for one of April's rebellious responses.

There wasn't anything for the desperate mother to do but sigh and rub her temples fervently, leaving fragile soap bubbles through out her hair.

"Well why the hell not?! It's not like keeping all this stupid anger in helps any."

"And you wonder why people don't talk to you," her mother remarked, purposely keeping her gentle voice soothing in response to her daughter's deafening screaming.

"It's because I'm fat!"

"It's because of your temper."

Redness started to coat the blue-green veins in a series of splotchy marks that continued to travel down her scarred arms to her tightly clenched hands.

April marched across the cramped kitchen and tore into the make-shift living room—which consisted of nothing more than a torn sofa and a well- worn black and white TV.

She immediately, if not sooner, came stomping out and thrust a hard covered book into her mother's face.

"Look! Look at this!" April screeched, waving the book around for emphasis. Her mother barley had enough time to read the title. The word's 'Understanding Your Teenager' were printed in thick blue letters that paraded across the top of the cover.

"Were you reading my self help books again?!"

"SELF help? This doesn't look like self help to me," April pounded vocally, throwing the book aside. "It says in there to 'allow your children to let their feelings out, for it will encourage in-depth discussions and numerous situations of trust.'"

"Baby, just because it's in the book doesn't mean it's right-"

"You don't believe me."

"No, April I never said that-"

"You don't believe me!!!!"

The windows were beginning to rattle now for sound waves are more powerful that one may expect. It was almost as if a train was passing through.

April dug her hands into the shattered glass and ignored the few fragments that were stuck in her palm as she tore open the book that had laid so lifelessly on the floor for a mere two seconds.

"See?!" she cried, opening to page 175. "SEE?!"

"April, I believe you! You know I believe you, I always do."

"Yeah right, you believed Dad too and look at how far that got you."

Her mother's eyes welled up with tears since she was not one of the self-sufficient, independent, bitter moms by far.

"That hurt sweetie," she answered in a constricted tone, diving for the sink to work within the comfort of her all too familiar bubbles once more.

"It did? Good then. Now do something about it!"

Her mother kept her eyes glued to the foaming water.

"What are you trying to say April?" she asked, barley coherent.

"I'm saying I do all this shit and you never do anything about it! You never stop me, you never punish me, and you do nothing! You just sit there and take it all. It's embarrassing! My own mother can't even stick up for herself. Good God at least hit me!"

Her mother's lower lip began to tremble as she held back the waterfall of tears that were dying to come out.

"HIT ME!" April screamed, her hands forming into fists once again, which rammed the shards of plate deep into her skin.

"No," her mother whispered.

April could feel her jugular vein beginning to pop and she knew she had to leave before she ended up killing herself in a fit of rage.

"Fine. Then I'll do the hitting."

And with that April whacked her mother across the face with a force so powerful it was a wonder why the defeated women's brains didn't come gushing out of her ear. The fragments of glass had transferred from April's bleeding hand to the skin on her mother's sunken cheekbone. It a matter of seconds April was standing over the woman that had cared for her since birth, smirking wildly in some sort of demented pride. With a final short laugh, she turned around and left her mother curled up on the kitchen floor. With that she kicked open the pathetic piece of wood that they referred to as a door and began to make her way out into the ironic New York sunlight which was usually disguised as smog.

"I love you," April through she heard her mother whimper, just before she slammed the door in the woman's face.
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Don't worry, April and Roger will meet in the next chapter. I'm not planning to make this exposition drag on forever. Heheheh. Though now that you mention it. . . .