Standing Tall

"Think. Can't you think? What do you think that means?"
"I don't know." She replied, a low whisper out of her pale lips because
she was afraid of the consequences of those three words.
Her mother's face turned scarlet with anger. "Are you that stupid?
Can't you figure it out? My God! How can you be my daughter and that
dull?"
She started to cry. Her mother's words pierced her heart. Was she
really stupid? She felt worthless. Worthless because of the way her
mother looked at her reduced her to feeling like she was worthless.
When her own mother seemed to want to disown her, then surely something
was wrong with her.
"Don't cry!" her mother exclaimed disdainfully, disapprovingly. But she
seemed to be emotionless. As though she got used to it.
She mustered up the courage to wipe her tears. She felt as thought she
was supposed to cry because dry eyes would make her seem
heartless.
"I still don't know," she stated in a loud, clear voice, trying to
appear as nonchalant as possible. She let a laugh escape her throat. It
seemed appropriate. "Are your rebukes supposed to enlighten me?" As she
gained confidence, her voice became increasingly sardonic. "Is this
your help after school? Do you think this is what I need?" She felt her
self-pity begin to melt. It was replaced my anger. Mostly at her mom
for being so mean, but anger towards herself, too, for giving in to her
mother's persistent attempts to make her feel worthless.
Her mother looked at her self-righteously. Her shock at her daughter's
outburst wasn't concealed and this made her feel supercilious.
Her lips twitched, but she suppressed her smile. She didn't want her
mother to realize the joy she got out of angering her, but she couldn't
help herself. It was something about having the ability to move her
fury from her own heart to her mother's. She strongly believed that her
mother had no right to put her through the things she does, however,
she justified doing that to her mother. Because her mother deserved
it.
She looked around the musty room. This was why her mother deserved it:
because she was a bad mother. Bad for having put her daughter through
hell. She was only thirteen, but already she'd been through a lot. She
was like her own mother-substitute. Her mother could be gone for weeks
and she'd have to make use of what she left behind to live. Sometimes
she went for days without food. Sometimes she slept in the park across
the street because she got locked out. No other did that to her
daughter, she was sure. She wondered sometimes if her mother knew who
her father was. She told her once that he was a powerful and respectful
lawyer who represented her mother in a case years before, but since her
mother had no money to pay him, so his paycheck wasn't exactly
materialistic.
She looked into her mother's eyes: green and lifeless. Like empty holes
or pools filled with lifeless matter. They were lifeless. Free of any
love or sympathy towards her daughter, her mistake. She shuddered at
that thought: she was a mistake. She realized that that was what she
must have been. The concept hurt, and she decided to block it from her
mind rather that contemplate it because she was afraid her composure
would shatter, causing her to breakdown and appear weak in front of her
mother.
She couldn't appear weak. She'd already gotten so far. At least now her
mother realized that her daughter grew up and wouldn't be taking this
crap from her anymore. She felt liberated. She had finally stood up to
the biggest obstacle in her path, between her and independence, between
her and freedom. She felt like she was almost there. Liked she'd broken
a wall of stone, broken her mother.
Her jaws ached as she tried to stop her lips from smiling, but she
couldn't deny the rush she'd felt from vocalizing her thoughts. Her
thoughts and rage and antagonism that were suppressed for so long. She
imagined it to be as a corked bottle of wine overflowing, overflowing
with fury and hatred.