Sleeping in a burning room: The story of a scar

Drip…drip…drip..I nonchalantly watch as the shimmering droplets of rain are sucked in to the gravitational magnet that is the ground. The clouds aren’t done shedding their tears; the rain still falling heavily from their fluffy, dark surface. My long tan leg, exhausted from the day’s dose of weeding extends outside of the barn, heavily covered in droplets op soothing cold rain that assuage my cuts and scrapes. My shoe is hidden under the shelter of the doorframe of the barn, staying dry on top of a clump of hay. My back is propped up against the door, opened part of the way to let my leg breathe. The bits of red gashes and blood stains are conspicuous against the bright white barn door and I lean my head back to avoid the horrific sight, sighing with a great release of pain. My hair is long; longer than it’s ever been. The golden blonde color is hidden with the strands drowned in water, turned a dark color from the nice dose I got from my route home. 6 miles. Only six miles.

My dad must be soaking wet right now, good thing he has no hair on his head to turn colors. Then again, he has nothing to keep the beads of water out of his face. That’s one of the advantages of being a girl. The only ones I find are the occasional handy features that long hair and fingernails can help with; holding my sweat from a long day and taking splinters out of my bare feet. So, if you couldn’t tell, besides the occasional advantages, girlhood sucks. My hair gets stuck in the wood in our barn, the door pinching my head as I rest. My body isn’t developed yet, that’s something I have to look forward to. No one thinks I am strong. I’m just a girl, a pathetic, bitchy little girl.
“Bitch”, I say out loud. My voice cracking under the stress of a new word, something I’ve never spoken. I’m only eight, my mom would hate to know my newly developing vocabulary. “Bitch” I say again. This time my voice is strong, confident, steady. Those drunkards at the farm don’t know how to act around a little girl. I could be dreaming about ponies, growing up and getting married in a beautiful white gown. I’m thinking about the word bitch, how to heal shallow gashes in your legs, and the inner mind of a middle aged farmer. Why can’t I just be a girl? I think. Why couldn’t my mom have actually given an ounce of concern for my well-being for the past 7 years?

Yes, seven. This past year, my mom has changed, as if she appreciates me. She’s never cared about me, just her vodka, her tobacco, and her men. She calls them her friends from work. How dare she think of me as incompetent, too stupid to understand that she doesn’t have a job. I follow her every day on her way to “work” and watch as she slips a bill into her “friends” shirt pockets and strongly taps them on the chest. I’ve never watched past this point, nor have I ever told my dad. With his temper, if he knew my mom was unfaithful he’d lose it. He already knows she’s a bitch….yes I know what it means too, and an addict. An unfit mother, a lousy wife. Why does he have to work these nights like tonight, slaving away in the fields at midnight.
I should be in bed. I should be back at the house. “Whatever” I say out loud, folding my now dry arms against my soaked blue- well, black- tank top. I quickly remove my arms and place them back at my sides, an uncomfortable position that causes me to agitate with wet clothes. I feel disgusting, blood covering my cut legs, my soaked shirt and shorts, and my long stringy blonde hair that I can never groom. I think about going back to the house, being dry and warm. Surely, I’ll be warm there.

Clomp…clomp…clomp…my feet sound as the soaking wet skin hits the water on my house’s porch. Well, my mother’s house, as she would say. My jaw clenches, heavily pressing down as I try to stay quiet. My bruised arm slowly extends outward, my fingers wrapping around the brass door handle. Please don’t be locked, please don’t be locked..I think as I question my mother’s sobriety. If she was sober, the door would be locked. But she’s not sober, I just know it. I’m used to the smell of vodka and tobacco on her breath mixed with the filthy stench of her unwashed skin.

“Creeaaaakk!” the door goes as I gently twist my hand and pull, not knowing whether I would be sleeping with my horse of with my teddy bear. “Click!” I hear as the door unlatches and the inside of the house opens up to my relieved eyes. I suddenly jump back and my eyes widen as I glance over at a bright light coming from the living room. As I gently slip off my wet shoes, I turn the corner and peer into the living room. The back of her tall, red armchair stared me down. It was so big that I couldn’t tell if there was a drunk woman passed out in it, an angry sober woman waiting in it, or nothing but a wisp of air. The coffee table to the left is incandescent under the glow of her tacky lamp, a stupid looking cloth covered piece of junk with a kitten-patterned shade.

“M-mom?” I say very quietly with an uneven voice. My body is frozen in place, my hands clenched as a mom would hold her child’s hand crossing the street; well, a good mom. Silence. No reply comes from the intimidating red chair with two messed up clothes on both arms of the frame. I sigh out of relief and proceed into the living room, taking my hair and twisting it into a manageable knot. I reach my other hand over to the stupid lamp and pull the string, stealing all of the light from the house. I quickly pull the cord again out of shock and fear in a pitch-black living room. The light is staying on.

I look over at the seat of my mom’s chair, covered in 1 dollar bills and gum wrappers. Gum wrappers? Maybe she’s finally decided to stop smoking, or maybe she’s just picked up another addiction. I let out a big sigh as a way to shake off my long day, prepared to crash in my bed and sleep in. Tomorrow is my boss’s birthday, the only day off we get out of the whole year. That says a lot, when the only holiday we get to celebrate is someone else’s anniversary of their birth. My legs start to move again, steadily maneuvering around the chair and back into the hall towards the staircase. The white walls are lined with weird pieces of art, close-up eye balls and fruit and even more annoying kittens. “Stupid kittens” I say out loud, quickly realizing how much of an anti-little girl I am. I roll my eyes and find the stairs in feint light, half hidden from the glow of the lamp. My hand finds the cold railing and I slowly creak up the stairs. I can hear every fiber of wood screaming under the pressure of my body, a tall and strong body for only an eight year old.

My mom’s snoring becomes audible from down the stairs, my ears surprised that they didn’t hear her obnoxious whale like roars from down stairs. As I reach the top I realize that I’m being too cautious and sloppily stomp up the last 2 steps. “Shoot!” I whisper loudly as I hear the snores stop and rustling of sheets start. I quickly round the corner to my adjacent bed room and run onto the quiet carpet, shielding her bedroom from my footsteps. I let out one last sigh of release for the day and gently close the white door behind me. How stupid is this room.. I think as I realize how much of a nightmare my mom’s design sense is. When I was born, she decorated my room for days with pink flowery wall paper, kitten trim (yes, more kittens). My bed is sitting on top of a rug shaped like a daisy, which is covered in crusty mud and stains of grass, thank god. It’s the only accent that keeps my bedroom sane. My bed is covered in light yellow sheets with a darker yellow colored quilt. The quilt is so ugly that I often have to turn it upside down so I can look at the blank white instead of the gross flower patterns. Name any flower in district 11, it’s on my quilt. Roses, daisy’s, daffodils, lilacs, tulips, you name it.

I’ve grown so accustomed to the horrific design that I turn it over and flatten the quilt out over my mattress with rough and volatile hands. The top of the ugly quilt is covered in brown stains of mud that anger my mother, my younger self coming home from the fields every day and rolling around in bed. I remember my mom used to scream at me, and all I’d say was “I just didn’t want to get the white part dirty.” My mouth smirks, my lips relaxing immediately out of sheer pain. I hadn’t drank anything all day, my lips cracked and practically wheezing from no hydration. I ignore the warning signs that my lips are sending me and start to take off my clothes. Each garment, my wet blue tank-top, my brown shorts, my unmentionables, sailing through the air and landing next to a perfectly good hamper. They usually stay there for a few days until my mom comprehends the fact that my dad doesn’t know how to do the laundry.

As I finish undressing, I proceed over to my window and quickly slam it shut. My floor has been soaked from the rain pouring through the window with no screen, something that’s actually not my mom’s fault. My dad meant to put the new screen in this morning that keeps the bugs out instead of the cold out but he must have forgotten. I mean, the man has a drunk wife and a hectic work day to deal with, why would he remember to help me with a five minute long task. No one would, no one does. I’m just everyone’s third priority. I guess that’s why I’m so independent, I’ve basically had to raise myself with a crazy mother and a workaholic dad who I never get to see.

My teddy bear is waiting for me under my quilt, probably wondering why I haven’t rescued it from the rain yet. I usually come home much sooner, but I don’t usually hurt myself so much at work. Teddy. I know, the most original name for a stuffed bear in the world. But it’s unique to me, he’s my only friend. Teddy is the one I talk to everyday when my legs are shaking in pain, my back throbbing from stress. I guess I’ve learned to heal in my bed, and Teddy is the only good thing in my bedroom. I hate these other wannabee Barbie dolls, stuffed kittens and flowers with faces. Although Teddy has pink skin and a purple nose, he’s so manly and strong compared to the other décor. He’s been the man in my life, my father when I needed one. Now I just need something to replace my mother. I fear I’ll never get my mother back.

My mother is beautiful once you get past her unbathed skin and stench, her unwashed golden hair, her dirty face and her horrid personality. She has bright blue crystal like eyes that I admire. Maybe they’re from her mom, maybe she’s just lucky. I ask her sometimes why her eyes are glazed and bright but she always refuses to answer. Her face is stunning, being oval shaped. She has immensely long eyelashes that highlight her beautiful eyes and give her a very feminine quality. Her nose is small and button like, over her gorgeous full lips that look like a movie stars. She is about 5’5’’, only a little taller than me. The men at work tell me how lucky I am to be tall at my age but I never understand why. It only means I have dangly legs, noodle arms and a giraffe neck. Maybe I’ll grow out of it. My dad tells me that when my mom was my age, she looked just like me. I guess I take this as a compliment, knowing how beautiful she is- when she’s sober. Her arms are skinny and delicate, unlike mine white are strong and I imagine will be muscular when I’m older. Her breasts are large and plump, the one thing that I envy of my mother. I long to develop into a beautiful woman with a chest and hips, but somehow I know I’ll be stuck in this boyish body. Her stomach is oddly contoured, having smooth flat muscles but traces of overhanging skin. Her ribs stick through and when she breathes, I fear that they will burst through her thin skin with age spots. Her skin is very uneven and spotty, what I guess is a result from her being in her forties and her bad habits. Her legs are long like mine, but are completely different in appearance. Mine are rough, stocky and strong while hers are long, skinny and smooth and totally womanly. Her toenails are chipped and have traces of a spotty bright red color that she would also paint her finger nails until she became too lazy.

My dad has pictures of her when she was young, always saying how she “was” beautiful, and “used to be” gorgeous. He fell in love with her after working for her brother for a year on a farm. Now he never spends any time with her, as she doesn’t provide anything for our family. My dad is forced to do all the work, her lazy butt sitting in her red chair from sunrise to sunset- with the exception of her play dates. She is a target in this town in District 11. Not only has she protested the Hunger Games, derived from losing my grandmother to them 20 years ago, but she has harassed people in her drunken state. She often wanders out of the house and knocks on people’s doors. When the tell her to get out, she spits, screams and yells. I know when I grow up, I’ll be nothing like her.

When she is sober, she spends her time protesting the capitol and the Hunger Games. My dad feels the same way, but tries to stay out of the limelight. Now she is always getting yelled at, punched and beaten up when she goes out in public. Everyone hates her, despises her, with every fiber of their being. I feel like I should be on her team, her being my mother and all. But sometimes I feel like I’m on their side.
I toss and turn in bed, struggling to fall asleep in the muggy heat and the sound of raindrops beating on my window. Wow, those are really loud! I think as the sound grows louder and louder. It’s not the rain. I can hear thrashing, slamming, hitting. “Oh mom.” I say under my breath as I take my pillow and hold it over my ears. I start to dose off to sleep, Teddy in one arm, my other hanging off my bed.



My mind is active, but it’s not in control. I can’t think, I can’t perceive. That chair over there, I can’t reach. The bottle in my hand, I can’t see. Everything is a blur, fading into a pool of swirls and bends. I’m tired I think, surprised that I can conceive a thought. This is funny, so funny. The kitten on the wall is looking at me with her eyes crossed and her mouth open. The stairs look like a piano when I turn my head, except the piano is painted black. As I reach for the railing, my hand slips and my balance shifts to my left, quickly toppling over onto the floor. Ow I think, but my mouth says otherwise. I burst out laughing, not a humorous laugh but a nervous laugh. I don’t know what to do now, I can’t get upstairs. Wait, my bed is downstairs! I think as I swallow my saliva from the leaking pool around my face and push up with my hands.

I fall over again. And again, and again. I a panic, I just lie on the floor, not knowing what to do. I start to cry, my instincts kicking in. When I don’t know what to do, I feel helpless and I cry. Where’s Elise? I think to myself, too drunk to read the clock on the other side of the room. I see my bed, my bedroom door open as if asking me to enter. Suddenly I try to get up off the floor, but my body won’t let me. I try so hard, but nothing works. I decide to crawl across the floor, finally outsmarting the force that was causing me to fall. I brush the hair out of my face, now flipped in front to cover my eyes and mouth. All I can smell is a sharp, tangy pungent smell and a rough, gross, dirty smell coming from my hair and my breath. I want to take a shower, lay under the warm water, but I can’t even find my bed let alone stand up in the shower…

I finally reach my bedroom, my hands grasping on to the clumps of carpet under my arms, my legs still covering a cold, bare wood floor. I crawl and pull myself forwards, hitting my head hard against the bed post. “Ouch” I say drained of emotion as I pull myself up on the frame and plop my body down on the warm, comfortable sheets. I don’t even care that my quilt isn’t on the bed, I’m so tired and drunk that I immediately pass out and fall asleep, not even knowing what time it is.

When my body wakes me up, I cringe at the sound of loud snores and stomps coming from the staircase. That must be Elise I think, suddenly realizing that my mind is much more focused and coherent than before. I roll over on my side and crack open my left eyelid, the light forcing it immediately back to closed. My eyes burn every time I try to open them, but I want to see where I am. I hear the pitter patter of raindrops on the window on the other side of my room and can’t fall back asleep. I moan and sigh and place my hand over my forehead, realizing how throbbing my headache was.

I open my eyes both at once, trying to adjust to the light. They hurt, burn and I squint to avoid the light, but I slowly widen my eyes as I become immune. Finally, when they are completely open, I stare at the window. Dark sky, grey clouds, white droplets of rain. It looks like a horror movie. Then it hits me. My window is open, and the ground under it is emerged in a pool of water. “Shit!” I yell as I thrust myself towards the other side of the room and slam the window shut. I’ll just make Elise clean that up I think.

“Wheaton is a bitch! Wheaton is a bitch!” I hear suddenly, loud chants coming from outside the front door. Oh no, I left the door unlocked! I think as I rush into the hall. Then it hits me. We’re in danger, horrible, horrible danger. The window on the side of the front door is illuminated with red and orange flames, undulating and waving back and forth from torches grasped with forceful hands. My eyes widen, my hands dropping to my sides, my body freezing in shock.

“E-E-Elise!” I yell with a horribly cracked voice that seems like no matter how loud I scream, nothing comes out. Still in shock, I watch as the front door tears open and two flaming torches fly in. As if in slow-motion, I see flaming stick revolving in mid air, the fire growing more and more intimidating. The flaming balls of hatred land with a crack on the floor of the living room, immediately engulfing my chair and rug on fire. “HELP!” I scream at the top of my lungs, but only once. I quickly turn from the fire and start to run towards the stairs. My mind turns before my body and I take a frantic spill on the floor, noticing the door now shut, the chants changing. “Die in hell! Die in hell!” they screamed.

Why did they do this? I think. Why me? Why us? As I fall, I see my life flash before my eyes, the fire quickly spreading throughout the South part of the house. At that moment, every emotion in my body told me to do one thing. Get Elise.

My body thrusts itself off the cold floor and tips up against the wall, knocking over a painting of a baby kitten. I realize then and there that I’m a mother, and my job as a mother is to protect my children. I’ve restrained from this my whole life, living with a bratty daughter who hates me. I’ve drowned my sorrows in alcohol, sex, drugs, but now it’s time to be the mother I always meant to be.

“ELISE!” I scream frantically, my voice now reaching an all time low. As I take one step up the stairs, it hits me. With the rain, all of the windows were closed, the door closed too. There is no air anymore downstairs. I look around and I am overwhelmed in a smog. Thick, grey smoke floods my lungs, my house and my soul. I try to push upwards, thrusting myself up the stairs, but I can only muster one step. “E-“ I start as I realize I can’t breathe, no longer able to speak. Uncontrollably, I start gasping for air, my body collapsing under me. The stairs hit me hard, and I feel the sting as I topple down and land hard against the cold kitchen floor. Still gasping for air, clutching at the ground, I open my eyes and see the fire barreling at me, realizing it’s too late to live. My last thought is not about myself, my survival, my fear. I’m sorry Elise- I think. I should have loved you more.

I take one last gasp and not only inhale the smoke, but my own tears. Tears jet out of my eyes, streaming down my face and into my hopeless gasping mouth. I’ll never be able to tell Elise that I love her. She’ll never love me. She’ll never grow up. I’m a terrible mother. As I sob, my body cringes and the life leaves my body. I can feel all of the energy being sucked away, my eyes closing and my hand falling onto the floor. I take my last breath, and I die.