Rapidly pulling each one off the hangers, I gather a huge heap in my arms. Then I waddle through the bathroom door, go over to the laundry chute, and stuff them inside. I let go of the pile and listen to the fabric softly swish four floors down. That should at least provide a soft landing.
Next, I push my backpack through the door and quietly mutter prayers for my laptop’s safety as it whizzes down. Several seconds later, I hear a soft thud echo back at me.
Okay. This is it. My moment.
I stare into the darkness of the chute.
Can I really do this?
“You have to. What’s the worst thing that can happen? You get caught sneaking out and end up right back here. If you don’t at least try, you’ll die here someday.”
That’s the worst-case scenario. My mom isn’t immortal. At some point, she’s going to die, and I’ll be left alone here, stuck in this house by myself. By then, half of my life could be wasted already.
Leaning against the wall, I scan the bathroom of my prison one more time.
The small space is cramped with the slanted ceilings. The tallest part is barely high enough to accommodate for the standup shower. The floral wallpaper is faded and peeling in some spots.
A light wooziness filters through my head as the medicine starts to take effect.
I take a freeing breath. My muscles relax. My brain and body sync up in perfect harmony.
There’s no pain.
Worries slip away.
What I love most about being medicated is the fact that I feel more myself this way. I feel right. The world is right. Everything is… right.
Even the guilt I was experiencing just minutes before is muted to a dull, easily ignorable buzz.
Yes, my mother will be lost without me, but she made this bed we’re in together.
Out of the two of us, she’s the crazier one for sure. Sometimes I wonder if she likes the fact that she passed her mental illness down to me, because at least then she’s not alone.
She’s tried so hard to give me whatever I want, within reason. I have a television, DVDs, and multiple streaming networks. I have my laptop and access to the internet. Sure, she likes to check my browser history occasionally. Which is why I’ve gotten good at erasing it.
Admittedly, manipulating her is a talent I’ve developed. Once I realized throwing a really loud God-awful fit would get me what I want, I started having tantrums.
I’m not proud of it.
But.
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and my mom won’t listen unless I make it impossible for her to ignore me.
Last Christmas, she bought me a treadmill after I trashed the dining room because she wouldn’t let me go for runs around our property. I broke a bunch of plates before she started making promises to placate me. The machine was a compromise.
A similar incident got me some casual clothes. That time, I didn’t break anything, but I did go streaking through the house as naked as the day I was born. The next week, I got yoga pants, jeans, sports bras, T-shirts, and hoodies delivered to our door. I’d been fed up with the stupid dresses she makes me wear for a long time, and she finally said that I could wear whatever I want as long as I do it in my room.
It’s not enough.
As much as she’s tried to make me happy, she can’t.
Because the things I desperately want in life need to be done out there. Out in the world. With other people and places.
Unzipping the fanny pack on my waist, I fish around in the pouch for a folded piece of paper.
My bucket list.
Learn to wing eyeliner
Eat an entire pizza
Kiss someone
Get married
Be a mom
Be a basic bitch
The last one is the ultimate goal. I want to be painfully normal. I want the minivan and the suburbs. The messy bun and leggings. The ridiculously expensive Starbucks lattes everyone makes videos about.
Reading over my list gives me the motivation I need to start folding myself into the chute.
My mom’s had me backed into a corner for years. It was only a matter of time until I snapped.
I have a life to live, and it sure as hell won’t happen here.
Sweat trickles down my temple as I wiggle. My knees are tucked up to my chest, and I use my thigh muscles, pushing against the metal walls to keep myself from falling too fast. I passed the second-floor eight feet ago, so I know I’m coming up to the office bathroom.
When I feel the swinging wooden flap with my shoe below me, I push it outward, wiggle some more, and hook my legs over the ledge. With some maneuvering, I’m able to get through the little door without making a noise.
My feet touch down on black and white checkered tiles. Moonlight comes through the bathroom window, casting a glow over the clawfoot tub. There’s a wicker chest of drawers next to the pedestal sink, and I rummage around in it until I find a small flashlight.
I click it on, and a dim yellow circle appears on the pink wall in front of me.
Over my heavy breathing, I listen for any warning signs in the house. No creaks or footsteps. Except for the ticking clock, everything’s quiet.
Tiptoeing over the wooden threshold of the office, I go to the bulky antique desk, crouch down behind it, and slowly push the heavy leather chair out of the way. Two false drawers hide the old safe. It’s two feet tall, fireproof, and weighs a shit ton. The combination isn’t hard. I figured it out years ago when I still had free roaming privileges in the house.
Sticking the flashlight in my mouth, I point it at the dial and turn it until I land on the numbers that make up my birthday.
Click.
Just like that, I’m in.
The solid door swings open with a quiet squeak from the rusty hinges.
Stacks of cash are piled inside. I haven’t counted all of it, but I estimate the amount has to be up in the millions. Mom doesn’t trust banks. Apparently, she shouldn’t trust me either.
I pick up a wad of fifties. The bills are bound together, and I quickly count a thousand dollars in the bunch. I take ten. Then I take five more, stuffing all the money into my bursting fanny pack.
“Think of it as your inheritance,” I rationalize. “She won’t even miss it.”
But she’ll miss you.
Damn it.
The guilt is back.
My finger bumps into the little plastic baggie, and without giving it too much thought, I dig out another half pill. Looks like it’s a full-dose kind of night after all. I need a little something extra to douse my nerves.
After swallowing it down dry, I continue my little pep talk. “It’s her fault for holding on too tight. If she would’ve given me a little more freedom…”
I still would’ve left. Eventually, anyway. That’s what people do when they grow up. They go to college. Get jobs. Make friends and have families of their own.
I don’t care if I have to go to ten different doctors to find the right dose with my medicine. Maybe add in another drug to balance me out. I’ll even go to therapy or group meetings. Anything to be sane enough for society.
Before I close the door of the safe, I rummage around inside one more time.
I don’t see my birth certificate anywhere. My mother clutched that thing like her life depended on it the entire time I was in the hospital, and I have no idea where she stashed it. I suppose I don’t need it, so I give up after a couple minutes of searching.