Wounds That Refuse to Heal

As I sat on my childhood bed across from a mirror, and stared at my long brown hair, and deep brown eyes, I thought that my life could not get any worse. I inhaled as the perpetual and unmistakable smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke continuously filled my room. I heard my mother clomping around our meager house, in her drunk state. Or should I say her normal state, because I can’t even remember the last time I saw her sober. I twisted the dark knob on my radio to drown out the sound of her doing god knows what in the next room.
“Britney!!” My name seemed to tear out of my mother’s drunken throat. I tuned it out. She would eventually leave me alone, right? “Turn it down, right now young lady!” She squawked at me again. Her voice had the ability to cause physical pain, to the point where I would do anything to not hear a word uttered from her colorless lips. Every word cut into me like a shard of glass, each sentence leaving a gash, that would take weeks to heal. Her footsteps increased, each one so loud you could mistake her for an elephant. My door is already locked, I knew the drill. Screams. Shattering glass. More screams. Cursing. Each word ceased to surprise me, it was nothing I hadn’t heard before.
My mother had been like this for as long as I can remember. She was heartless being that could care less about her only child. What turned her into a raging alcoholic? That I’m not sure of,  but I never saw her any other way. Self defense had been a crucial part of my being ever since I was young. I would’ve been better off on my own, instead of having to defend myself from my own mother. As I shut my eyes tight, I imagined a different life. I had no where to go, no one to turn to, and I was used to it.
“Why does it have to be this way?” I asked grimly as single, salty tear rolls of my cheek into my left palm. It glistened, just like the glass shards that I knew were patiently waiting for me outside my door. As I tore a piece of skin off my lips with my teeth, I clutched a small, black angel pin that I always keep with me. My grip softened on the pin, and as I peered down at it, I thought to myself, “Aren’t angels supposed to be white?”
Tonight was not a typical night,  because usually after my mother’s episode she storms out. Instead, I heard a soft whimper outside my door. This is unusual, because my mother usually had no remorse for her actions. What had changed? Did something happen to her? I decided to ignore it, because it’s not like she ever cared about me. So I laid down on my bed, and covered myself up.
With heavy, fast breaths, I opened my eyes. Looking down at my arm, it shimmered with a light layer of sweat. My eyes felt puffy, my lips were sore from tearing the skin off of them. Where am I? I blinked hard, and when my eyes opened again, there was a very large, black, lifelike figure with wings far out in front of me. I couldn’t make out who it is, or what it wants. Was it an angel?  I felt a sharp gust of wind, which made my hair fly behind me,  and I saw the figure shooting toward me. I couldn’t move. My feet were stuck. I bent slightly backward because the male figure was an inch away from the tip of my nose. 
“You have 24 hours to decide if your mom lives or dies.” It commanded me. “I will visit you again tomorrow night.” The figure disappeared, and my eyes flew open for real this time. My eyes were puffy, and watered with worry. My bed was drenched in sweat, even though it was freezing outside. Was that real? Did I only have 24 hours to decide if my mother lives or dies? I flew out of bed into the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. As I grabbed a towel, I looked into the mirror, and I saw in myself qualities I had never seen before. My dark eyes resembled my mothers, and so did the shape of my face.
“I’m sorry” My mother whispered to me as she placed her cold hand on my back. I jumped, because I didn’t realize she was awake. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes glided from her mouth to my nose. My lips pursed and my eyes squinted.
“Sorry?” I questioned harshly. I wanted her to be hurt.
“You don’t deserve this” whispered my mother. Her voice cracked as she muttered the word ‘deserve’.
“You’re right” I replied with all the sass I could find within myself. “I don’t deserve a wash up mother. Things are going to change around here” I demanded. Remembering the dream I had last night, I still debated if it was real, but I quickly added “Or else.” Her dark, black pupils had gotten wide, and I saw deep inside of her. It was as if she knew about my dream, and about my decision. She inhaled sharply, and exhaled the same way, and turned on a heel away from me, without even a mumble of a word.
I had to get away. I had to get away from her, her voice, and anything that she had ever touched. I grabbed my phone and my bag, and ran out the door. I ran fast, one foot after the other. Nothing could stop me. I had a decision to make. I ran until I could run no longer, then sat in a park bench. As I thought about the dream, I questioned its existence. Was this angel for real? What had I done to reach him? Questions flooded my mind, but one stuck out in particular; How come she didn’t have a comment to make after I said ‘Or else’? Unable to come up with a good reason, I erased the thought from my head.  I needed to focus on the real task at hand, my decision. Still unsure of the status of the dream, I decided that I needed to have a plan in case it was in fact, real.
As the day continued, my mind went back and forth. My mother had essentially, raised me, and brought me into this world. But after that, I couldn’t think of one other reason that would make me want to keep my mother around. I racked my brain, but there was not one thing that came to mind. As I closed my eyes that night, I was confident about my decision.
“Welcome back” The angel slyly said to me. “Have you made up your mind?” The way
that he asked me caused me to think he already knew my answer. His voice was different this time, it instantly reminded me of my mothers, and the pain it had caused me.
“I have” I said confidently, and I knew that when I woke up, my life would be drastically different. I was tired of her. Her absence and failure at being a mother, the constant smell of liquor in the house, her voice that cut like knives, and the way she had treated me throughout the years. I was ready to rid her from my life. “I want her to die.” I stated confidently at first, but then the words came back and made my stomach twist. She was my mother. Did she love me? I wasn’t sure. Did I love her? I wasn’t sure of that either. Remorse absorbed my soul. But I voiced my words, and I had made my decision. All of a sudden, I felt something come over me. Fear. I sucked in air as fast as I could, but I couldn’t breathe. Panic. I was frozen. This is all just a dream, right? Wrong. I was awake, and pain devoured my being. My mom was punishing me for choosing to end her life. Evidently, she had the same decision to make, but she got to me first. I clawed at my neck, choking and gasping, and felt as huge broken shards of glass slowly were taking my life. I looked up, only to see the angel laughing, and my mother standing next to it with the biggest smile I had ever seen her wear. It was her, who ended my life that night, when I thought I would be the one to end hers.