These Words Are My Heart and Soul

The cold goo went on my slightly swollen stomach, making me shiver slightly. Frank held my hand tighter, smiling excitedly as the sound of a fast heartbeat filled the room.

“What’s the sex?” Frank blurted out.

The nurse looked at me as if asking if I wanted to know too, and I grinned and nodded. She looked back at the screen and moved the machines probe thing across my bloated abdomen, trying to decipher the sex.

“It’s a little girl.”

My eyes filled up and I pulled Frank into a damn tight hug.

“Little Laurie! Gramma would be proud,” I whispered, touching the screen with my fingers and tracing the little thing on the screen.

The nurse said that Laurie was perfectly healthy, and was getting a good amount of nutrients and was in the right position. Though she said there would be a strong chance Laurie would be born a few weeks premature. It scared me slightly; my baby might have problems.

I looked at Frank and saw the look on his face, the fear in his eyes. He was scared too. I prayed silently to whatever being there was up there that she’d be perfectly fine; a little underweight but fine all the same. Hopefully He or She would listen to me and make sure my little girl wouldn’t be ill. It’s all I asked.

***
My birthday. Like I said, we were having a piss-up. I was already insanely drunk, but refused to stop. As one am struck, everyone left and I changed to go visit my mom. Stumbling up the street, I knocked loudly on the door.

My mom answered.

She looked like she’d been crying. She pulled her robe closer round her body, but I could see her eye quickly swelling and growing purple. I knew what had been happening.

“Hey love, what are you doing here?”

“I came so you could celebrate the day I was born.”

She looked at her watch.

“That was yesterday,” she said tiredly.

“I know. That’s the whole thing. You missed it.”

My eyes were welling up in anger and bewilderment.

“Did you even remember?” I asked quietly.

“Of course I did.”

But the look in her eyes looked like shame and remorse. I knew she’d forgotten. I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer, and they streamed down my face. At this, my mom started crying too.

“I’m really sorry, Loryn. I’ve been… a bit busy lately,” she muttered.

“No, mom, you haven’t. You’ve been having the shit kicked out of you by the fat old bastard and you’re too damn proud and scared to admit it!”

“Y-you’re drunk. Go away, Loryn.”

And she tried shutting the door, but I put my foot in the way.

“I’m not afraid to call the police on my own child,” mom said, fear evident through her anger.

“I don’t care if you do. Because I’ll be here when they come and I’ll tell them all about Mitch. You can deny it all you want and so can he, and they can lock me up in whatever mental hospital they want, but I know, Laurie Marie McStone. You’re my mom. I care if you get hurt. But if you’re too fucking stupid to realize when something’s wrong then more fool you,” I screamed.

With that, I turned on my heal and ran. She called after me, yelling all sorts, from sorry to abuse, but I didn’t turn back. Just ran to the playground. I sat on the tire-swing, making it spin quickly. I could feel the burn at the back of my throat that told me I was going to throw up, but didn’t stop. So it came out of my mouth and I ducked over the edge, vomit spraying over the edge in a multicolored streak that made me jump off and land on my knees, throwing up more. My hands were in it and my knees were in it.

I rolled over onto the clean grass, wiping myself on it. I rolled over more, crying and shaking and looking up at the stars, my breath was coming out in clouds because it was a cold Fall night. It was already September second, my first official day as a seventeen year old, and my second day as a junior. I was a mess and I knew it.

My mom was denying her pain, her love life was a total sham.

I pulled a cigarette out of the box in my hoody pocket, lighting it, with great difficulty, and taking a large drag. The smoke swirled in the icy breeze and I shivered. My eyes slunk to the burning end of the cigarette, and without warning I plunged it into my arm. I felt the water in my flesh boil away, and the cigarette went out, still smoking away. I looked at the damage.

A huge red sore was erupting, and I casually picked the blistered skin away. What was left was the forth layer of skin. There was no blood, just some icky clear stuff. I put my hand over the burn and it stung. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing more tears out. It hurt, but I didn’t regret it. Self-harming without a knife.

Great. I was so damn smart.
***