Could this actually be worse? No, she thought. There’s no way. She wouldn’t wish losing a mother on her worst enemy, but she wouldn’t wish this either. “Are you ok?” Her mother asked, her face half contorted with annoyance. “Your eyes are doing that thing again when you get sick.” “I’m fine, she replied.” She knew exactly what her mother meant; she would tell her daughter often that her eyes looked weird when she was sick, just like her father’s. Her mother could barely stand the sight. “I’m just tired,” the girl lied. She really was coming down with something, now with shame layered on top. “Alright, well you look weird,” her mother reiterated. “I know, Mom,” she said. The fact was, she didn’t. A ripped-up photo from before he left served as her only memory. “I’ll, see you later,” she continued, wishing she never had to see her mother again.

“You know, you could really be something if you applied yourself,” her English teacher stated, while handing back her story. Little did he know the application of a human relies heavily on one’s willingness to succeed. Disappointment was the norm, any success quickly overshadowed. “You can’t be disappointed if you don’t try,” she reminded herself. She would never realize why that mind state was indoctrinated into her psyche, nor the awareness of its mere existence.

Time seemed to drag on, each hour painfully longer than the last. She pondered going home, to a sight she knew all too well: her mother already three buckets of vodka deep. Instead, she headed to the park, near the old bridge. She hoped her mother would be passed out by the time she got home. It had been a long day and she wasn’t prepared for it to grow longer. As dusk was approaching, she started the mile journey to the old bridge, to get back to the other side of town. Her walk became a ran, as she hoped to escape the inevitable darkness.

Previously restrained by the potentially messy aftermath of her choices, she began to sprint. A sense of freedom started to mingle with her chronic melancholy. The farther she ran, the further she fell into the depth. She was clawing at branches, escaping, she thought, but all the while the forest strengthened its grip. Constantly fleeing, never to be found. Anonymous. Countless.

Always darting the oncoming abyss. The shadows followed her despite the light, the darkness consumed her. Finally, her day was done.

Her absence wouldn’t create much mess, she convinced herself. Indeed, she was right. There were no ripple effects, no honest wakes of sorrow. After the investigation concluded, the rusted bridge again stood tall. The river flowed without any memory of what transpired.

Her first-period English teacher was the first to notice.

Posthumously the school honored her with some made up writing award. It was the only thing the staff could think of that she was remotely skilled in. They could barely remember her face, let alone her name. The assembly lasted ten minutes. The students rather return to Biology and Calculus, that swap memories of someone they barely knew.

Ironically, it was the approval her mother would never give her. She didn’t live long enough to see either, not that it mattered.

Only two in attendance at the funeral, the girl, and the cremator.

In premature death, she would play the role of the grieving mother. Yet, neither word could be used to describe her. She would focus on Her tragedy, Her sorrow, finally the sole focus of everyone around her. She would never once question why her daughter could no longer stand to be on Earth. Even more unlikely would she consider what role she might have played in this tragedy.

What she did know, was that her daughter’s plight couldn’t compare to the weight of her own. She’d claim this action was for attention, but never out loud. Attention being the other thing she never considered giving to her daughter.

The one-sided competition was over. She had won. All the things her daughter stripped her from could now be regained. Care and compassion for the girl, she’d still have to pretend. At least she no longer had to fake love for her daughter or see those eyes ever again. At last, her perpetual victim moniker she could wear as a crown instead of a scarlet letter. Only her daughter knew the truth.

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