Page 29 of Don't Speak

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Is this my new normal? Nightmare after nightmare until I go insane?

A day here and there in between without reliving my trauma isn’t enough.

I am exhausted. The bags under my eyes are getting bigger, and I feel like my body is here, but my mind is somewhere else.

I feel like I’m floating below the ocean’s surface, never quite making it to the top to catch my breath.

I lay here, staring at the ceiling. My mind plays through the entirety of my life’s events. So much hurt. So much betrayal. So much pain. I wonder what the point is even more, but I’ve never quite been able to take matters into my own hands. It would be peaceful. It would be serene. I’d be free.

I shake the thoughts from my head, dragging myself out of bed for another day of mundane routine.

Feed the cat. Shower. Get dressed. Lay around until work.

I don’t even know why I hold onto hope that I’ll ever have a normal life.

The cards just weren’t dealt in my favor.

Maybe sometimes some of us have to suffer so that others never have to experience it.

I’m not religious or anything, not anymore, but if there were a God, then I’d have some pretty strong words for him.

I work the night shift tonight, and it's only 1pm, so I relax on the couch, only this time with a new book since I finished the other one. It’s so good. It’s about this girl who gets taken by three men, and they all wear Ghostface masks while chasing her. It’s the perfect escape.

Just as I’m starting a new chapter, my phone rings. There’s no caller ID, but I answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Niiiikkiiii. Hiiii, baabybee,” my mother slurs on the other end.

“What do you want, Dana?” I respond coldly.

“Dddon’tt beee a bittchh, Niiikkkkii. I’m ‘yer mutherr,” she tells me, as though that is supposed to make a difference.

“I quit contact with you for a reason, Dana. Stop calling me,” I say before going to hang the phone up, but I am abruptly stopped by shouting.

“DON’T YEWWW FUCKIN HANGG UPPP OON MEEE,” she shouts, and I bring the phone back to my ear.

“WHAT DO YOU FUCKING WANT, DANA?!” I scream back.

“I need summ mmonneyy.”

“Absolutely not,” I deadpan.

“Yyoouu oowe meee,” she attempts to grit out, but the alcohol makes her tone sound all the same.

“I don’t owe you shit, Dana. I can’t stand you.

I can’t stand to look at you or talk to you.

You make my skin crawl. YOU ARE ONE OF THE REASONS I AM brOKEN,” I scream at her.

There is so much built-up rage inside me that I am beginning to feel nauseous.

My fight or flight is kicking in, and I know I need to end this call soon, or I’ll have another panic attack.

“Don’t call me. Don’t ever call me again. I want nothing to do with you, Dana. You’re dead to me,” I spit, pulling the phone from my ear to end the call, but not before I hear her say, “You’ll regret this, you little bitch.”

I end the call and throw the phone onto the couch, screaming uncontrollably.

I feel so robbed. I’d give anything to have a mother.

A real mother. I feel like I’m constantly mourning the loss of a parent who is alive.

I envied my friends growing up. They all had mothers who cared for them.

Took them shopping. Took them on pampering dates.

Loved them. Taught them all the things about being a teenage girl and then everything about womanhood.

I mourn not having someone to call when I need to cry.

I mourn not having someone to call when I have a cooking question.

I don’t feel like I was asking for much.

I just wanted her to choose me.

But she never did.