Stranded
Zwei
I awoke to the morning sun shining through my window. I couldn’t remember what had happened the night before, but I was quickly reminded when I inhaled and felt the worst stinging sensation of my life. I couldn’t open my left eye completely. I touched it, and pain resonated from my eye to the rest of my entire face. I fought back tears and stood up from the hard floor. There was dried blood all over the left half of my face.
I entered my bathroom, found an old washcloth, and mopped up the blood on my bedroom floor. Looking in my bathroom mirror, I didn’t see a young, happy, seventeen year old girl. I saw an old, tired, and hurt woman. I was sick of it.
My mother died when I was four years old. My father, who already had a drinking problem, entered a state of depression in which his only comfort became alcohol. My brother, Greg, was introduced to weed when he was thirteen years old, and I was seven. My brother hadn’t been clean for the past ten years, my father hadn’t been sober for the past twelve years, and my mother hadn’t been alive for the past thirteen years.
I looked at my clock that read 7:30. I had school in less than an hour, so I jumped in the shower, washed the blood off my face, and was out in ten minutes. I tried desperately to cover the bruise that sprawled across my face, but nothing could mask the evidence of the night before.
I put my hair up in a ponytail, got dressed, and hopped into my candy-apple-red Mazda SPEED3. I pulled out of my driveway without saying goodbye to my brother or father. I got to school at 8:15, and rushed to my first block class.
The entire day I tried to keep my face hidden, but I could tell everyone knew. I heard people whisper to each other about me, thinking I couldn’t hear them. Everyone knew about my home life. Everyone knew my dad was an alcoholic. Everyone knew my brother was a druggie. I was so tired of it.
Driving home from school, I broke down. Avery hadn’t been at school that day, no doubt because of a hangover from the night before. I’d had no one to talk to at school, so my emotions were all still kempt up inside me. I pulled over into the baseball fields’ parking lot and cried. I couldn’t live in my father’s house anymore.
I stayed at the baseball fields for about an hour. As the emotions poured out of me, I knew I had to leave my home. When my mother died, a part of myself went as well. I was only four years old, but I knew my mother better than I’ve ever known myself. Thirteen years later, I could still remember the way she smelled, the smile on her face, the way she made me laugh. At the same time, I remembered the way she died.
My family has never been wealthy. When I was young, we moved from apartment to apartment, staying as long as we could before the notice of eviction was taped to our door. The first home I remember having was comprised of a cramped living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. The walls were paper-thin, and every word said in my parents’ bedroom could be heard in the bedroom I shared with my brother.
One night my father came home unusually late from work. He couldn’t walk straight, and when he spoke, his words were slurred together, as if void of any spaces and punctuation. My mother was angry with him, and I remember her sending my brother and me to bed particularly early that evening. As I pretended to be asleep, I listened to the argument in the next room. My mother was trying to remain calm as my father’s words became more harsh and violent. His voice escalated to a yell, and I heard him angrily hit my mother. Scared, I clenched my pillow as I heard my father storm out of their bedroom and out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. I could hear my mother crying in the next room. Whether her tears were of sadness, anger, or pain, I couldn’t tell. I wanted to run into her bedroom and hug her and cry with her, but I knew she wouldn’t want me to know what had happened. I closed my eyes and fell asleep to her tears.
Early the next morning, I awoke to a frightened scream. My brother had already awoken and left our bedroom. I rushed out of my bed, not knowing what had happened. I saw him in my parents’ bedroom and followed him in. My father was still not home, and I saw my brother standing over our mother, shaking his head violently.
Her eyes were opened wide, unseeing. Her skin had lost its glow, and the color in her lips had faded completely. My brother ran to our telephone, and with shaking hands dialed 911. I moved closer to my mother, realizing she wasn’t breathing. I pleaded with God that my mother would wake up from this sleep, that God would give her back to my brother and me. I heard my brother speaking through his tears on the telephone, giving our address and begging the ambulance to hurry up.
Minutes later, my mother was taken from her bed and outside to an ambulance. The empty bottle of pills on her bedside table was taken too, and a police officer took my brother and me to the hospital. I don’t remember the ride to the hospital, nor do I remember the wait before the nurse in the pink told my brother and me that our mother had died. I do, however, remember my father picking us up. I saw him coming down the hall of the hospital, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. We rode back to our apartment in silence, and for the rest of the day my brother and I sat in our bedroom, shaken from the day’s events.
I watched my mother’s body be lowered into the cold ground a few days later. Many people I didn’t know hugged me and consoled me, telling me everything would be alright. I wish people wouldn’t lie.
I started my car and pulled out of the baseball fields, feeling weak. Immediately after I got home, I sat down in front of my laptop and went online to Expedia. I’d saved up for this. I had a thousand dollars on my debit card, and I was so thankful I did. I typed in what I wanted: a one way trip from Denver to Amsterdam. The cheapest result was $665.10. I happily clicked the link, entered my information and debit card number, and bought my ticket. I’d be flying from Denver to New York to Warsaw, and finally to Amsterdam. My plane left the next morning at 10:25, and I was to arrive in Amsterdam at 6:55 PM the day after.
I rushed to pack my suitcase, stuffing it with basic jeans, tee shirts, socks, underwear, and tennis shoes. I crammed the suitcase in my trunk, along with a carry-on bag filled with snacks, a pillow, my iPod, my phone, and my passport. I showered that night, and set my alarm for early the next morning, which was a Thursday. The Denver airport was four hours from Aspen, where I lived, so I knew I’d have to leave home around 5:30 the next morning.
I went to bed ridiculously early that night, but still didn’t fall asleep until midnight. My mind was filled with images of the beautiful city I was headed to and all the people I’d meet on my way. My heart and mind wouldn’t let me fall asleep, they were so wound up. I closed my eyes and finally drifted off to sleep.
I entered my bathroom, found an old washcloth, and mopped up the blood on my bedroom floor. Looking in my bathroom mirror, I didn’t see a young, happy, seventeen year old girl. I saw an old, tired, and hurt woman. I was sick of it.
My mother died when I was four years old. My father, who already had a drinking problem, entered a state of depression in which his only comfort became alcohol. My brother, Greg, was introduced to weed when he was thirteen years old, and I was seven. My brother hadn’t been clean for the past ten years, my father hadn’t been sober for the past twelve years, and my mother hadn’t been alive for the past thirteen years.
I looked at my clock that read 7:30. I had school in less than an hour, so I jumped in the shower, washed the blood off my face, and was out in ten minutes. I tried desperately to cover the bruise that sprawled across my face, but nothing could mask the evidence of the night before.
I put my hair up in a ponytail, got dressed, and hopped into my candy-apple-red Mazda SPEED3. I pulled out of my driveway without saying goodbye to my brother or father. I got to school at 8:15, and rushed to my first block class.
The entire day I tried to keep my face hidden, but I could tell everyone knew. I heard people whisper to each other about me, thinking I couldn’t hear them. Everyone knew about my home life. Everyone knew my dad was an alcoholic. Everyone knew my brother was a druggie. I was so tired of it.
Driving home from school, I broke down. Avery hadn’t been at school that day, no doubt because of a hangover from the night before. I’d had no one to talk to at school, so my emotions were all still kempt up inside me. I pulled over into the baseball fields’ parking lot and cried. I couldn’t live in my father’s house anymore.
I stayed at the baseball fields for about an hour. As the emotions poured out of me, I knew I had to leave my home. When my mother died, a part of myself went as well. I was only four years old, but I knew my mother better than I’ve ever known myself. Thirteen years later, I could still remember the way she smelled, the smile on her face, the way she made me laugh. At the same time, I remembered the way she died.
My family has never been wealthy. When I was young, we moved from apartment to apartment, staying as long as we could before the notice of eviction was taped to our door. The first home I remember having was comprised of a cramped living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. The walls were paper-thin, and every word said in my parents’ bedroom could be heard in the bedroom I shared with my brother.
One night my father came home unusually late from work. He couldn’t walk straight, and when he spoke, his words were slurred together, as if void of any spaces and punctuation. My mother was angry with him, and I remember her sending my brother and me to bed particularly early that evening. As I pretended to be asleep, I listened to the argument in the next room. My mother was trying to remain calm as my father’s words became more harsh and violent. His voice escalated to a yell, and I heard him angrily hit my mother. Scared, I clenched my pillow as I heard my father storm out of their bedroom and out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. I could hear my mother crying in the next room. Whether her tears were of sadness, anger, or pain, I couldn’t tell. I wanted to run into her bedroom and hug her and cry with her, but I knew she wouldn’t want me to know what had happened. I closed my eyes and fell asleep to her tears.
Early the next morning, I awoke to a frightened scream. My brother had already awoken and left our bedroom. I rushed out of my bed, not knowing what had happened. I saw him in my parents’ bedroom and followed him in. My father was still not home, and I saw my brother standing over our mother, shaking his head violently.
Her eyes were opened wide, unseeing. Her skin had lost its glow, and the color in her lips had faded completely. My brother ran to our telephone, and with shaking hands dialed 911. I moved closer to my mother, realizing she wasn’t breathing. I pleaded with God that my mother would wake up from this sleep, that God would give her back to my brother and me. I heard my brother speaking through his tears on the telephone, giving our address and begging the ambulance to hurry up.
Minutes later, my mother was taken from her bed and outside to an ambulance. The empty bottle of pills on her bedside table was taken too, and a police officer took my brother and me to the hospital. I don’t remember the ride to the hospital, nor do I remember the wait before the nurse in the pink told my brother and me that our mother had died. I do, however, remember my father picking us up. I saw him coming down the hall of the hospital, but I couldn’t look him in the eye. We rode back to our apartment in silence, and for the rest of the day my brother and I sat in our bedroom, shaken from the day’s events.
I watched my mother’s body be lowered into the cold ground a few days later. Many people I didn’t know hugged me and consoled me, telling me everything would be alright. I wish people wouldn’t lie.
I started my car and pulled out of the baseball fields, feeling weak. Immediately after I got home, I sat down in front of my laptop and went online to Expedia. I’d saved up for this. I had a thousand dollars on my debit card, and I was so thankful I did. I typed in what I wanted: a one way trip from Denver to Amsterdam. The cheapest result was $665.10. I happily clicked the link, entered my information and debit card number, and bought my ticket. I’d be flying from Denver to New York to Warsaw, and finally to Amsterdam. My plane left the next morning at 10:25, and I was to arrive in Amsterdam at 6:55 PM the day after.
I rushed to pack my suitcase, stuffing it with basic jeans, tee shirts, socks, underwear, and tennis shoes. I crammed the suitcase in my trunk, along with a carry-on bag filled with snacks, a pillow, my iPod, my phone, and my passport. I showered that night, and set my alarm for early the next morning, which was a Thursday. The Denver airport was four hours from Aspen, where I lived, so I knew I’d have to leave home around 5:30 the next morning.
I went to bed ridiculously early that night, but still didn’t fall asleep until midnight. My mind was filled with images of the beautiful city I was headed to and all the people I’d meet on my way. My heart and mind wouldn’t let me fall asleep, they were so wound up. I closed my eyes and finally drifted off to sleep.