But here she was, waiting on her mother to come home and she should have been this morning. What was the hold up? Why didn't she call? A visit that had her left behind this time. Why wouldn't she come back? Settling into the couch, she continued to stare outside, even as her eyelids grew heavy. Head lulling back against her own arm, sleep would find her. Curled into the cushions, waking up to a strange contortion but still alone. The way she would find herself more often than not.
Sunlight fluttering through the blinds, a pillow and blanket around her. Items missing. A note. Not even a letter, but she knew. Her heart sank as she read her name scribbled across the top of it. Tears in her eyes as she stared, unable to look away, but unable to reach out and touch it. Words she would never read. It hurt too much, and she knew why. It had become a topic that was spoken of, but never laid to rest. Everything was too much for her. Rachel just didn't expect it to include this.
Falling back, she tried to pretend that none of this was happening. The fabric thrown over her head as she laid back on the couch. Her head on the arm rest. The pain that set in, the heaviness in her chest. That feeling that was choked on, lodged in her throat. There was no sound to go with her tears. Life was not allowed that sort of trophy.
She wouldn't come out for a few hours. Her stomach gnawing at her for food, her body aching for its own needs. Sinuses and nose stuffed and draining, as she tried not to choke on the fluids that lie there. Face puffy, as her dark hair still covered her features, where the blanket would not. The room wasn't cold, but she felt it. No panic hit her, only pain. Suffering quietly and letting the world just pass by. She didn't want to be here, yet she couldn't find it in her to leave.
Each time she felt right, that she was strong enough to handle this or empty enough from the tears, there came another wave. It hit her like a wall. It was as if someone died. That feeling she never could understand, where she recalled asking her father. The one that took eleven years to finally grasp. It was as if her mother had died. Some accident that was to have taken her from her life forever. Worse, how true that was. How realistic it came to be. But Rachel couldn't even sit there and really imagine it as such. It would have been better. Not to have this sinking feeling that she were really some sort of burden that could not be handled or wanted. Worthless and useless, left behind like an old hat box.
The fabric all around her was wet, soaked, along with her hair. The blanket far from some saving grace. There was no daddy to run to, no hope of her mother coming around. She didn't want to have to tell anyone, to have to receive those looks. The ones that said she was weak or worthless. The pity that would come from it. Lost beyond recognition. Was there anything she could have done to change this? If she had been a better daughter? To have known better and reacted like she should have when there was that knock on that door?
Strength. It was there, somewhere, but she couldn't feel it now. It may as well have run off with the woman that bore her. She felt light, as if some feather lying there. If wind were able to blow, that she would just fly away or crumble elsewhere. Another place, another time. This wasn't the place for a teenage girl. As if there couldn't be some random act of normalcy and have it be over some teenage angst or a failed relationship. There was no imagination of such an act for Rachel. There was no allowance in that level of understanding.
Relationships, at least romantic, they weren't the direction she cared for in life. The turning of a head meant little, some act of flirtation by anyone could be brushed off. Even when she was interested, it wouldn't lead anywhere worth anything. A let down in the making. They all left her like her parents did. Even while she lie there, crying over this moment, letting it out as she could alone. She could see the similarity. The ability to blame herself for the loss, even though she knew it wasn't her. It didn't change the feeling or the helplessness.
Once she was done, and no more could pour from her, that one moment she was sure of it and herself was that time she pulled herself up. Not just into a sitting position, but off of the couch completely. Hands wiping away as much as they could, but there her gaze was still locked onto that name she knew so well. The name she called her. The way the cursive flowed so beautifully. The memories of how she used to watch her write, in hopes of trying to recreate it. Not just for the sake of recreating it for permission slips or fake notices.
But now, she held nothing. That emptiness settling within her stomach and chest, she moved about the room, putting everything away. A shoe box pulled out from her own bedroom. One of the few that she kept random keepsakes and shoved under her bed. The letter was left untouched by human hands, as she used to lid to slide it into the box. Locked away from her view and left to whatever fate that she would leave it to now. Another life, one where she no longer felt heavy and sick to her stomach now. She could play pretend for a few more months. Life would tick away and everything would change.
Enough loss had been taken, and now what was she missing? Where had her own life led to reach this point? The questions with work and life in general. What patterns did she end up dragged back into or worse. She still had that shoe box. Would pull it out each Mother's Day morning. That time where she would have went through all of the steps. The breakfast she would prepare in the kitchen for her, the flowers that would be sitting on the table, the card she held in her hand. In remembrance of a person that may as well have died. The memories of her running in and jumping on the bed so excited. Those times where her father had done all the real work, but she tried so hard. The smile that lit up at the sight of the lump there under the covers.
Those other mornings where her mother would beat them to it and they would drag her back to bed. That was where everything was supposed to be had. Until she argued enough, sat everyone down. The table, that was proper. This was the place to hold everything. The capable thanks and caring looks. Her favorite fruit, omelet, juice.
That emptiness settled, leaving her wide open to feelings she didn't like to touch. It wasn't ever that she didn't feel anything. Everything was always there, just beneath the surface, allowing her to question the rest. A whole life settling into her eyes, as she stared at the box that was left there. The worst part was the memories. There wasn't any part of her that could ever read that letter. Just stare at it, watchful, even as it aged with her. The words left unknown, just like that girl that was left behind. The one that would have done anything to have changed what happened.
There had never been a lack of love, a lack of empathy, or anything that led her to feeling like she had earned what happened. The feeling of worth was never there. Not in that particular instance. There were no happy endings at the end of real stories. They kept going, and she knew where hers led. A woman she only ever recalled looking up to, for caring and loving her more than herself. Even in her worst moments, where she was nothing but some selfish teenager, it was a phase. The question of if the woman would ever realize that, if she would have ever went back. Turned back for even a moment to visit that home. But that question would never matter. Because it would never end well. Going back was never an option. She had to go, to find her place.
It hurt more now that she still felt that raw. To still love someone more than yourself. Her father had lied, but her mother was just left with the fallen pieces. Not strong enough to want or bother with them, while they included her. If there were only a way to change the beginning. To be a child again, and to just relive those moments to have and hold, more than some piece of cardboard and a few photos. Ribbons of color that led to nothing but more pain. What was the point of any of this?
It was another form of torture and she didn't know how to handle it. She was just one person looking at the world in another way. A view that wasn't grasped or welcomed in the way others took the bright and cheery. But she didn't want it like that. If there was going to be more there, if there would be some freedom for her own soul, she needed more. To sit with more than these memories that just piled there before her.
This wasn't that home, it wouldn't be that home. This was one where she had found for herself. Place after place, before settling in. There was so little here for her. Incredibly little, as much as it was realized by outside eyes. Stronger bonds than those that ever held her anywhere else. Unseen, yet tightly in place. Not to have watched her cry through that day, those minutes that ticked by as she allowed herself to succumb to that sort of pain. Not because there were words to lift her up. Words that she never felt were necessary. An understanding left between them as far as who she was and what sort of trouble she brought. A loyalty that always went further out than was ever utilized, as if it could reach the sun.
The flowers placed into a large glass of water, Rachel tossed the shoe box back into its usual place and began to dip her fork into the omelet. The moment left behind her, in passing. The feelings lost to better ones. Tortuous minutes that ticked by, were only going to be allowed by choice for herself. She was twenty-eight years old and that part of her life had moved on long ago. Without the woman there, she was going to enjoy what she had. She was going to take the best parts of her and throw away the worst. Like a crestless sandwich for a child. It was going to work for her how she saw fit.
The rest of her day would go as it should. Random calls continued to be taken and accepted. Things that needed to be fixed or changed. A life she had set for herself. The kind that didn't lead her to just take care of herself. There would be no admitting to that, but she knew it was true. That's what kept her here. The ability to have and hold onto more than what she had hoped to pride herself on before. Protective nature that was a stronghold, even when it wasn't warranted or wanted. Freedom that didn't come at a cost. There was no need to feel consistently held back. It allowed her to shift those feelings that she once held for a parent. For leaders and caregivers.
Life was that spark, that flicker of more in the beginning and that died out in the end. Parents were there to guide you and help you through life. Hers left her, whether by choice or otherwise. As far as she was concerned, that was how they guided her through life. Harder circumstances, more difficult understandings. A rougher life, even though she opted not to speak of what that exact life pulled her into having to deal with.
Her phone vibrating, as a little bright light lit up blinking at her. Begging for her to look at it. Scrolling a finger over the screen. A trip to be had. An adventure all of their own, and she couldn't even find it in herself to be the least bit bothered by it. Even though he had taken the initiative and paid for everything thus far. A smile there, but no laughter even though she felt like actually allowing it in that moment. To let those sounds hit her ears. Even that would sound foreign to her in this instant.
Between passing glances and replies, she washed the plate off and cleaned up after herself. Through the rush of everything, she hadn't thought too deeply, where she was now. There wouldn't be any stumbling here. Nothing left to fall apart, only that to build up. And she was proud of it, regardless to the lack of virtues, or the multitude of them. Right or wrong, none of it mattered. A degree of just what was said in whatever time that was allowed. Until then, she was going to meet her bed and there would only be dry eyes under this roof.