Agonium

"Hi, it's Amelia! I'm not here right now, so leave a message at the beep! I'll try to get back to you."

I can't do this, I just can't do this. My knees are shaking, and it's only her voice. Her little voice pre recorded god knows how long ago. If I can't even handle that than I truly am stupid for making this plan in the first place.

My eyes are stinging, and I am so tired of crying. My palm is sweaty, but I've managed to hang up the phone. It's a little too heavy, and I honestly feel pathetic.

I thought I was done crying over her.

But, Mom had sounded soft. I can picture her cradling the phone, just like she used to with me and Leo, and knowing that this message would be heard whenever she was missed. She'd be on the couch, it'd be a hot day, and that's why her voice sounded so lazy. Because my mother is demanding; you owe her your attention. My mother is elegant, with a booming voice and swinging hips, but her eyes can dance.

The woman on that recording is not my mother. That woman speaks as if she will never be noticed. She is the woman in the back of the room with soft shoulders and hollow eyes. That woman had been drained by a man and now works as a store clerk. I know that she has shaggy hair, and I think about her smile and it is never full.

There's a difference between the woman who was mine; there is a difference between my mother and the woman who left me.

But, I miss her anyways.

God, do I fucking miss her.

Every time I look in the mirror, I see her eyes and I know that I am her daughter. I grew her hair, and I have mimicked her smile. She sang to me, feed me, kissed me, and from that I have taken from her. I will always, unmistakably, belong to her.

And, somewhere along the way, I know that I am still taking from her. One day, I will be Amelia. All that made me Lovi will be hidden. They will all see her face, and from that they will see just how well I have followed her.

I don't want to follow her.

I do not want to be like my mother.

I dial the number again. I don't know what I'm trying to prove, but it's getting hard to breathe, and the phone is ringing so loudly. If I could only hear her, even if it's just the recording again, then maybe I'll be able to sleep okay.

"Hello?" I didn't expect that.

I think I might be dreaming, and I'm not sure if I can speak. My throat is dry, and I'm on the verge of crying. One word and I'm pathetic.

"Mom?" Can she even hear me? Is this even real? Where's the joke, where's the punchline because this is wrong. "Mom, it's me.. you know, Lovi." I hope that my voice is sound, but I know I'm delusional.

Her breath hitches and she makes a sound of surprise. However, she does not reply to me.

Why isn't she speaking? Does she really hate me that much? Shouldn't she be saying at least something? I know she was never going to say I love you or welcome me into her arms, but don't I at least deserve a hello?

Don't I at least deserve a 'how are you doing? It's been years since we talked.' I know I won't get an apology, but doesn't she ever miss me too? Does she ever think about me at night before bed or when she gets up in the morning? Does her mind ever wonder to me when she's bored? Does she imagine about what I look like now or what my plans are for the future?

Does she even care?

It's been silent for a minute. I would have thought that the line went dead, but I can hear her breathing softly. I don't think I can catch my breath.

"Why did you call?" It feels as if I've been punched, and I want to scream. My heart has either stopped altogether or it's beating so fast it'll break a rib. I am so stupid.

"I.. please don't hang up.. but I need to know.." Stupid, Lovi, you're stupid. You're a sad little girl with too wet eyes.

I need to know when was the day she decided to stop loving me. I need to know if she ever stopped loving Dad. I need to know if she can sleep at night, unlike me, and I need to know how often she says Leo's name.

"I need to know why you chose Dad."

She sounds startled and makes a little humming noise like she's thinking. I think I can hear her sniffling, and my hopes are raised some. "What do you mean? Lovi, this isn't what we should be talking about. Why did you call?"

Her voice is so soft, but it isn't sweet and it is not maternal. It is compressed under something I know all too well, and it is something I hate all too much.

I'm stuttering, "That's why. Why did you make us go back to Dad?" I pause, but she doesn't respond. "We all got out, and I know you weren't happy with us, but we could have gone with Grandma, we could have gone to a foster home. Why did you sign our rights over to Dad?"

"Because he's your father." She sounds offended.

"And, you're my mother."

She chokes at that. She's always been shocked when I've raised my voice to her, but I can't remember a conversation where I haven't been challenging. I know I'm a bad daughter, but I'm stubborn and I've been hurt.

"Lovi," she's trying to make her voice an octave lower; she's trying to calm me. It's patronizing. "What do you really want to talk about?"

She still hasn't apologized.

"Do you think you've been wronged?" It's hit me so hard, and I know she can hear me panting. I think I'm going to collapse, but I am so angry. So, so angry, and I'm all too sad. "You aren't a victim, you know." I am so bitter, and all I remember is that the last time I saw her my last words were 'I do not love you.'

I was wrong then, but I'm remembering the merit that they once had.

I've accepted that she loves JP, and that in order to have that love, she had to leave Leo and me behind. I've accepted coming home to Dad again and walking past the bathroom a little too fast. I've accepted having Leo yell and scream as he blames me for his shit-poor life, and most of all I've accepted that I have a want to die.

I just needed her to take responsibility.

I think she's crying now. There are huffs of air, and it sounds like she's stammering to get words out. But, my ears are ringing and I can't even stomach her excuse.

Stupid, Lovi, you're so stupid.

The phone's hung up. I'm pacing my room.

I have twenty missed calls.