I looked down at my arms, horrified.

Long fingernail scratches ran down my forearms, slightly bloody, from where I’d scratched in my sleep. I gaped at the long whips of pinkish red down my arms, for a very long time. Too long.

I got up, put on a baggy, long-sleeved striped shirt, and cut my fingernails short.

When I shuffled into the kitchen, both my parents were sitting at the kitchen table, almost expectantly. “Good morning,” I said, hollowly, and sat down at the table with them.

“You didn’t come home last night.” It was a bland statement that fell from my mom’s lips and hit me in the face, which was too numbed by drugs and stress to care much.

“Yeah,” I blatantly replied, then, so as not to be callous, I added, “I’m sorry.”

“What were you doing? Were you snorting cocaine in somebody’s bathroom at a party? Were you smoking crack in an alley with a creep? Were you… You could’ve been doing anything, Elena, you had us worried sick!” She dropped her head in her hands, unable to continue. “Why? Why? Why?”

James rubbed her back softly and continued, “You have to understand why we’re worried about you… Elena, you’re an a-”

“Oh, shut up!” I exploded, my mouth twisting into an ugly snarl. “I wasn’t fuckin’ smokin’ crack! I got drunk and stole a fuckin’ chicken from some dumb farm! Okay? Okay?”

I could hear my mom sob under her breath, face covered by her hands, as James intellectually went on, “You’re clearly disturbed somehow, and your mother and I-”

“Disturbed?” My jaw fell, eyes narrowing. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Yeah, I’m a little fucked up but you’ve got no right to call me fuckin’ crazy- fuck, man, I’m not even your daughter! Go fuck yourself!”

James sighed, defeated, and stared at me for a moment. I said nothing. My mom lifted her head, her pretty blue eyes tearful. She whispered, almost inaudible, “James, can I talk to my daughter alone for a moment, please?”

“Of course.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked out into the back yard through the kitchen door.

My mom, broken, looked at me and calmly said, “James just wants to help you. He isn’t trying to call you crazy, I promise.”

“He can still go fuck himself.”

“Our marriage is…” She paused, searching for the right word that meant not going well. She finished with, “Strained.”

“Because of me.” All the anger had drained out of me. How could I be angry? I’d killed my own mother’s soul, ruined her second marriage, constantly reminded her of her ex-husband who had destroyed our lives when I was a baby.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… Really,” I added sincerely, frowning.

My mom sighed. “I’m sure you weren’t thinking about our marriage much in your troubles.”

“Sorry for staying out all night. I shouldn’t’ve. I know that.” A pit was forming in my stomach, the scratches along my arms ached. Dizziness hit my head, nausea to my stomach like a club. Anxiety.

“Well, I appreciate your apology, but you’re grounded until you go back to school.” She frowned deeply, and added, “And, oh, God, don’t run away ever again. Please.” 

“Okay… Uh, school starts next Monday. You’re really only grounding me for a week?” I felt kind of surprised, but I could totally handle a week-long punishment.

“Yes, but you have to quit drinking, smoking, and drugs.”

“Oh.” Thoughts raced through my head, the anxiety instantly boiling my stomach acids and frying my brain cells. How would I get through school without my precious pills? How would I sleep without my Valium? How would I relax without Ativan and cough syrup? How would I let loose and have fun without any alcohol?

“Can you do that, Elena?”

I could barely hear her over my speeding mind. All I could reply was, “I feel sick,” And then, I added in a mumble, “Uh, maybe.”

“Sick? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, I’m fine…” I lied with a grimace. “Just kinda hungover.”

“Are you sure? You look a little sick…”

“Nah, just kinda hungover…”

“Okay, Elena, are you going to quit?” She forced a very phony-looking smile, hope shining in her eyes. “For me, if not for anything else?”

“Yeah, okay.” No, no, no. I can’t.

“And you’re going to get a job,” she added hastily.

“Sure.” Fucking working, fucking working…

“As long as you stay sober, and go to school and work, you can hang out with your friends as much as you’d like. That’s fine with me.” My mother was beaming then, so happy that I’d be clean, straight edge and intelligent.

Clean, clean, clean. The word spun around my head, dizzying. Does that make me dirty? I wondered, sick with anxiety and nausea.

James promptly crept back inside, muttering, “Everything alright in here?”

“Yes, everything is straightened out now.”