Dad was apathetic. He said it was a trait he took from his family, perhaps genetic. As long as I’ve known him, he rarely smiled. His eyes were always downtrodden, and when they did look up at me there wasn’t much of an expression to see—just the same vacant stare that made my heart ache every time we spoke. I guess we should’ve seen his suicide coming when he began drinking. He didn’t get mad or hit us when he was drunk. Dad would never hurt us. I think that’s what caused it. He didn’t want us to be worried by telling us about what he was feeling.
It only got worse when his father died from grief after his wife overdosed on pills. Because afterwards, he drank even more than before; until eventually, he hung himself. I tried to block out the memory of the phone call my mom got, and the cries that came out of her mouth. I barely saw him before, so now it would be no different. At least, that’s what I said to myself.
My mother seemed to have the complete opposite reaction. She let his death become a part of her every waking moment. I rarely find her not crying, and the times that she isn’t she’s angry. I don’t know if she was angry at us, or at herself, but either way, she’s been a terror since his death. Shortly after the incident, mom lost her job as a nurse, which just left her working at a diner. It was one of those places where you go because “it’s better than nothing” and barely offers a living wage. Every time my sister complains about the food she brought home, I could see a glint of anger behind her eyes. Her hands would clench into tight fists under the table, and she’d glare at her plate as if it had offended her.
Then came the rambling. Sometimes, when I passed by her room, I could hear her talk. I thought it was to someone on the phone, but as I listened in on the conversation, it sounded like she was yelling at my dad or someone that looked like him. She cursed at whatever she was seeing, calling it a demon and an imposter. “You’re not him! You’re not!” And then she’d scream she wanted to die. Unable to take the cries any further, I pushed the door open and saw… nothing. Just my mom facing the open air, tears streaming down her voice. Upon hearing the door opening, she spun to face me.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” She muttered through clenched teeth, pushing me out and slamming the door shut.
The next day, I watched her room with trepidation. The sounds she made frightened me; yells of anguish and clattering of furniture. Then came the first crash. After she cursed her delusions further, she began throwing whatever was inside her room. First, it was soft thuds, but eventually, the crashes turned into the shattering of glass. I listened in horror, unable to walk away from her breakdown.
She had shown no signs of improvement after the third night, and I didn’t dare enter the room again. But mom never came out. It was eerily quiet in the house for the first time, and I couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. When Ellie began crying about the hunger, I collected the courage and entered the door. It took everything I had to not vomit. Splayed across the bed was Mom. The white blankets turned red from the blood pooling down from the slit across her throat. Her dull eyes blankly stared at the ceiling, her expression forever stuck in a look of despair.
I dropped to my knees in the doorway, choking back the tears. Ellie walked up to me, confused. When my body finally began responding to me, I pulled her close to me, covering her so that she wouldn’t have to see the sight. My shaking fingers inputted the number for the police and told them what happened.
They deemed it a suicide, the same as my dad, brought upon by a mental breakdown. As for our situation, they suggested that we live with an uncle or a grandma or something. I had turned 18 a few months ago, meaning I could legally take care of Ellie. It was that or having one of my relatives. But since they either shared the same fate as my mom or were mentally ill, the only viable option was to take care of her myself. I got two jobs to support Ellie, and I don’t regret my decision one bit.
She’s distant, of course, and I wish I had more time to talk to her. Mom’s death hit extra hard. With dad being away most of the time and me focusing on school, the only person she really talked to was mom. She was the only one who could make Ellie smile. Sorry, I’m rambling again. The point is, it could’ve been better, but at least we were still alive and had the chance to get better.
Until a week ago, that is.
I walked into our dingy house, expecting to be met with the drabness of the walls and the scent of old smoke. Instead, I found my mother standing right beside the stairs. I froze, blinking several times. She was wearing the same outfit she had worn on the night of the funeral; a black dress with buttons down the front. A scar on her neck ran across her throat to where her collar bones began, and her hair hung long in the back.
After several minutes, I managed to continue walking without so much as reacting. She wasn’t there, just a figment of imagination, I thought. I announced my arrival to my sister, walking past my mom—no, that thing—and headed upstairs. Ellie had barely left the bedroom since the incident. She sat alone in front of our computer desk, playing games while listening to music. As I approached her chair, she glanced up at me, her sluggish eyes a painful reminder of mother’s.
We ate in silence, though I think for both of us it was for a different reason. Ellie was always quiet, even before their deaths, but afterwards, she was even quieter. I think she was afraid of what might happen if she tried to speak. But for me, it was because in the seat right next to me was my mom. She didn’t try anything; one second she was barely in my peripherals, half of her body poking behind the hallway. And the next, she was there, staring blankly at the table with the same expression I saw all those years ago.
As long as I continue to ignore it, I should be fine. Or, that was what I thought. Throughout the week, mom wouldn’t do much. Just stare at me from a distance with those dull, gray eyes. She made no noise and only ever got close enough to be a disturbance when we ate dinner. Other than that, she was no more annoying than a fly on a wall.
That was until I noticed she had gotten closer. She turned from a nuisance to something I couldn’t just ignore. The reason I posted this was because of yesterday. The first thing I saw when I woke up was her face inches from mine. I could tell every detail on her face; the wrinkles, the pucker around the mouth, the wound on her neck which, upon closer inspection, seemed completely empty, like this was just a skin suit.
I couldn’t help but gasp and let out a yell, falling off of the bed. It peeked over the bed and, for a second, I thought it smiled. As she began crawling over the bed, I jumped to my feet and dashed out of the room. The lack of iron almost made me topple over, but I managed to stay on my feet. Ellie groggily walked out of her room, rubbing her eyes. “What was that?” She mumbled.
I frantically looked around in an attempt to find her location to no avail. I looked at Ellie with a smile no different than hers. “Nothing, El. It was just a spider. Go back to sleep.” She narrowed her eyes, looking at my room.
“Did you also…” Her mouth opened to continue, but nothing came out. She shook her head, an action that I could tell was meant toward herself. “Nevermind. Have a good day at work.” When her form dissolved behind the void that was her room, I let out a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat off my eyebrows. Glancing back to the doorframe, I saw her getting close. Before I could get away, I realized my work clothes were inside.
I threw my head back, letting a list of curses out of my mouth. With a deep breath of air, I began approaching. Ignore it, and it wouldn’t do anything. I repeated the phrase in my head, but nothing could quell the anxiety in my stomach. As I was inches from her face, her mouth unhinged like she was screaming. Of course, no sound came out, but the sudden movement got a reaction out of me. I flinched, rushing inside the room and slamming the door shut.
By the time I went to work, it was behind me every waking moment, frigid breaths sending chills down my spine. It used any chance it got to make me acknowledge it one way or another. Mom succeeded, and by the time I got home, I was exhausted. Ellie was there to greet me, but I just walked by her, passing out on my bed.
I thought I could avoid my mother’s fate by ignoring it completely, but that doesn’t seem to work anymore. The truth is, it feels like I’m turning her. I’m paranoid, on edge, and scared. I don’t want to end up like her, and I would do whatever it takes to avoid that. Please, if you think anything could help, tell me.