Like Mother, Like Daughter

The little girl, Tess, awoke at midnight. The cause of her sudden awakening was unknown, but she decided to get a glass of water before going back to sleep. Quietly, she padded barefoot down the hallway to the kitchen, filling a glass with water before carrying it back to her bedroom. As she passed the lounge room, however, muffled cries came from behind the closed door, barely audible underneath the volume of the television.

Shrugging it off, she returned to bed and fell asleep immediately, unaware of the situation occurring just two rooms away from her.

The next morning, Tess woke up and sleepily walked into the kitchen for breakfast, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Her mother was standing at the kitchen bench, and when she turned around, the little girl gasped in shock.

“Mummy, what happened to your face?!”

The older woman tried to smile gently, but it appeared as a grimace through her swollen lip and black eye. “Nothing you need to worry about, Tessie.”

Tess decided against protesting and sat down to eat her cereal, studying her mother intently as she moved around the room, wincing every so often and clutching her side.

The next night, Tess crept out of her room at the same time as the night before, determined to unveil the secret her mother seemed intent on keeping.

Pushing the door to the lounge room open slightly, she peered through the tiny crack, and instantly drew back in fear at the scene she was witnessing. Her mother, that strong, independent woman she had always looked up to, was curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing as her husband repeatedly kicked her in the chest and ribs, can of beer in hand.

Tess watched in horror as her father bashed up her mother, sparing her no mercy. He finished the can of beer and threw it on the floor before heading towards the door, purposely stepping on the woman cowering at his feet, shooting her a glance of hatred. Tess jumped around the corner and flattened herself against the wall as her intoxicated father stumbled from the room towards the bedroom her parents shared.

Hearing a soft cry, Tess darted back into the lounge room, moving over to her mother’s limp body with tears in her eyes.

“Mum? What can I do?” she asked, pulling down her mother’s top, hiding the purple and black skin of her exposed stomach from sight.

“Go back to bed, Tess,” whimpered her mother. “There’s nothing you can do, it’s too late to do anything.”

Tess ignored her mother, helping the older woman off the floor and guiding her into her own bedroom, away from her violent father. Her mother was too tired and broken to protest. The two females curled up in Tess’s bed together, relishing each other’s warmth as they quietly sobbed in each other’s arms.

“I love you, Tessie. Thank you for saving me.”

“I love you too, mummy. Goodnight.”

Tess and her mother were awoken early next morning by an intoxicated father and husband flinging Tess’s bedroom door open. With a furious look on his face, he roughly pulled his wife from the bed.

“Make me breakfast, bitch!” he shouted, dragging the petrified woman down the hallway to the kitchen, with Tess running after them.

“Daddy, stop! You’re hurting her! STOP!” she cried, tugging on her father’s arm.

He turned around to face her, baring his teeth and snarling like an angry beast. “Let go of me, you little brat!” Her father, uncontrollable at this point, raised his hand to Tess, who stared back at him defiantly.

As he struck out, Tess’s mother stood up to shield her precious daughter, receiving the full brunt of her husband’s blow. She cried out, cupping her cheek, and the man standing before her (she did not know who this man was anymore, he was not the man she married fourteen years ago) smirked before turning around and going back to bed, satisfied.

Tess hugged her mother, tears flowing unchecked down both of their faces. They sat in silence for a few moments, Tess trying to control her tears and her mother thinking hard. She had taken her husband’s abuse with little complaint since it began a month earlier, when he began going out with friends after work more often and coming home drunk. She knew complaining to him would only make her a more vulnerable target, so she kept her mouth shut. But that morning had made her realise that she and her daughter were no longer safe in their own home.

“Pack a bag, Tessie,” said her mother suddenly. “We have to get out of here. I’m not putting you in danger anymore.”

Tess nodded shakily, taking her mother’s orders. She dressed and then began packing a bag with only the necessities: some spare clothes, underwear, pyjamas, toothbrush and her favourite stuffed toy, which she could not sleep without. Down the hall, her mother was doing the same thing. Before leaving the room, she emptied the contents of her jewellery box into another small bag, hiding it in the pocket of her handbag.

Tess was waiting for her mother by the door, and took her hand when they were side by side. Together, for the last time, they walked out the front door of the place they had called home for the last ten years, leaving behind them a lifetime of now worthless memories and the man they had once loved unconditionally.

Mother and daughter did not look back as they walked towards freedom, hand in hand.

In the master bedroom, an angry man stirred…

Fragile

She looked around the room, rotating three hundred and sixty degrees at snail’s pace, taking in every minute detail. The pale yellow walls, the pure white ceiling. The wallpaper with teddy bears and balloons running around all four walls: not at all unusual decorations for a nursery. Everything was pristine: the crisp paint work, the white cot, the change table packed with nappies, and the tallboy; tiny jumpsuits and miniature socks lovingly folded in the drawers. It looked perfect, and the woman’s whirling emotions were the only disturbance in the room.

Her gaze fell upon the rocking chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt her mother had made for her resting on the seat. Sinking into the chair, her lip began to tremble, and as she rocked, a tear slipped from the corner of her eye and made its way down her cheek, followed by another.

This room had looked the same for five years. The young woman and her husband had decorated it in anticipation of their first child when they realised she was pregnant five years earlier. They had been full of excitement. Slightly apprehensive and nervous, but ecstatic nonetheless, after two years of happy marriage they were about to embark on the next journey in their life: starting a family.

She had awoken in the middle of the night two months later to severe stomach cramps and a spreading puddle of blood surrounding her, staining the sheets crimson. She was devastated, but vowed to herself to not let the loss of this child end her family dreams.

That promise was compromised a year and a half later when she miscarried for a second time, four months into the pregnancy. She had worried that there was something wrong with her, and had began to give up hope, as did her husband. Night after night, she would cry herself to sleep, wishing with all her heart that she could have a baby, a beautiful little son or daughter, to hold in her arms. She wanted nothing more, and began taking steps to become pregnant again. She ate all the right foods, did not drink any alcohol and took daily vitamins, and, after another desolate year, she finally fell pregnant for the third time. She and her husband had held their breaths throughout that first trimester and by the time the end of the second trimester drew near, they finally accepted hope and allowed themselves to be excited for the impending birth of their first child: a daughter.

And now here she was, at the beginning of her final trimester of the pregnancy. Except she was no longer pregnant. At just twenty six weeks, she had gone into labour: fourteen weeks prematurely. She had been lying in a hospital bed after the long and painful delivery, hoping and praying her baby girl was all right, when the doctor entered the room, his face solemn and grave. He told her how her baby was born prematurely: she knew this. He told her how her daughter was currently on oxygen and in a limited-contact incubator in the neonatal intensive care unit, and would remain there for months to come. Some of the words he used she did not understand, but she didn’t need to: she knew what was happening.

Individual, disconnected words and phrases were drifting around her head as she remembered the doctor’s sombre speech: ‘fourteen weeks premature’, ‘incubated indefinitely’, ‘permanent oxygen’, ‘up to six months in intensive care’.

Six months. That was half a year of her daughter’s precious life, spent in a cage being poked, prodded and watched twenty four hours a day, having needles stuck into her, constantly fighting for her life on a daily basis.

For the next six months, she had to face the fact that the daughter she had craved for so many years would be dependent not on her, but on the doctors and nurses helping her to survive.

She had to live with the agonising thought that her daughter’s health could be compromised for the rest of her life, and the thought that was in the front of her mind was burning a hole in her brain and driving a knife through her heart.

This is all my fault.

Little Girl Lost

NOTE: This is based on a TRUE story, about the lives of my Grandma (Joyce) and my Nanna (Laura, who passed away about a month before I wrote this story).

Present

I sit, unmoving, in my chair. My eyes stare into space, not crying, not betraying any emotion. My heart feels as though it has stopped. Wishful thinking, maybe. I am numb.

Two hours ago, I received a phone call from my daughter-in-law. Not an unusual occurrence in itself. The words I heard, however, were words I had never directly heard before, and ones I wish never to hear again.

So this is what it feels like to lose your best friend.

November/December, 1951

My family was migrating from England to Australia. My father wanted to leave when the war started twelve years ago, but my mother fell pregnant with me and did not want to travel. I spent the first five years of my life in the midst of World War Two. Eleven years on, my father finally managed to scrape together enough money to secure a passage to Australia, working two jobs for the last five years.

I was running along one of the decks on the New Australia, playing chasey with a number of other children my age who I had befriended four days ago after setting sail. The taunts of “catch me if you can!” hit my ears from all directions as we teased the boy who was ‘it’. It was unbecoming for a young woman and I knew I would be in trouble if my parents caught me, but I was having too much fun to care. I looked back and squealed when I saw the boy who was ‘it’ pursuing me, gaining ground with every step. I wasn’t the fastest runner.

I saw his eyes widen and he called “watch out!” I looked back ahead of me, just in time to dodge a girl with long brown hair, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the deck, reading a book.

“Hey!” She glared at me as I passed her, a hair’s breadth away from tripping over her. I shrugged it off and kept running.

I didn’t see her again for a while.

Four weeks later, we were almost to Australia. I was wandering around by myself, trying to find someone to play with, when I came across a familiar looking girl who was crying.

“Are you all right?” I asked, putting my arm around her.

She sniffled, before answering, “My younger sister is missing. We can’t find her anywhere, my parents are scared she might have fallen overboard!”

“Oh dear,” I replied as my heart ached for the girl who looked about my age. “I’ll help you look for her if you want.”

“I’d like that, thank you.” She looked at me closely, scrutinizing me. “Hey, you’re the girl who nearly tripped over me a few weeks ago, aren’t you?”

I suddenly felt very embarrassed. “Oh, yes, I am. Sorry about that. My name is Joyce.”

“I’m Laura and I’m eleven years old. My sister is eight, her name is Sylvia. Please help me find her!”

I took Laura’s hand and we began to search every inch of the ship in earnest. We searched for four hours together, and were beginning to give up hope when we returned to her cabin, finding her parents scolding a very upset little girl.

“Sylvia! Where were you?” cried Laura, hugging her little sister.

Their mother answered in lieu of Sylvia. “She was found by a member of the crew in a male bathroom, in the shower with a young boy.”

Laura looked scandalised and berated her younger sister. I quietly left the cabin, sensing she did not need me anymore.

That was the last time I saw her on the ship. We disembarked a week later and I did not see her again for many, many years.

Present

Still, I sat in my chair, reminiscing about times spent with Laura, starting with the biggest coincidence of my life.

June, 1988

My eldest son, Daryl, came home with his girlfriend of eight years, Julie, in tow.

“Mum,” he began. “I asked Julie to marry me, and she said yes!” He smiled at his new fiancée and put his arm around her waist.

“Well, congratulations kids. I’m happy for you!” I replied sincerely, pulling them both to me for a hug.

“We told my parents just before we came here, and they invited you and Eric to dinner on Saturday night, so you can all meet for the first time,” added Julie.

“Wonderful, tell them we accept.”

Having never met, I was a bit nervous about this dinner with my future daughter-in-law’s parents. 

Little did I know that we would not be talking much about our children, but rather, our own childhoods.

My husband, Eric, knocked on the door at precisely seven o’clock on Saturday night. It was opened by Geoffrey, Julie’s father, who greeted us and showed us in. His wife greeted us next and when we shook hands, we looked into each other’s eyes, sensing familiarity. It was not until later that we fully realised who the other was, and we were both delighted to meet again and hopefully have a chance to rekindle our brief friendship.

Present

Since that day, twenty four years ago, we have been each other’s best friends and confidants, thanks to the union of our eldest children. We share two beautiful grandchildren.

Laura had been sick for the last sixteen years, with a rare type of cancer. Recently, all her organs began to fail and we all knew her time was near. I just never expected it to be so soon. She was seventy two years old, seven months older than me.

She was always the type that preferred books to running around. While I played tennis since my teenage years, she would often be seen with her nose in a book. The memory of when we first met is imprinted in my mind, that moment provides so many insights into both our characters. Funny, how such polar opposites can become best friends.

And now she’s gone.

I miss her already.

Short Stories

So I just decided that I'm going to start posting some of the short stories that I write. I have a fanfiction account and post on there but I can't post stories that I've written for English or just for myself that aren't about a musical or movie or whatever, because they're not fanfictions, they're just stories.
I'll post all the ones I've written so far on here, and if I ever get around to writing more I'll post them on here too. I like to get feedback on my stories from people who aren't my English teacher haha :)

To my DEAR parents (not).

Fuck you. Honestly, that's all I can say right now. You go on and on about how you are always here to help me and want to help me do my best and all this crap, then you turn around when for once I'm ACTUALLY studying and talk shit to me about how I'm wrong and you're always right. Well guess what, YOU'RE NOT FUCKING RIGHT. I may not be as smart as you think you are, but I'm not an idiot either, and I'm definitely NOT YOU. That means I don't have to study like you do, because it doesn't fucking work! Why can't you accept that and move on! I'm trying so hard right now, I'm struggling to get through this but I'm pushing myself, and you should be fucking happy about that, not just finding more things to yell at me for. You've said it so many fucking times and I heard you the very first time you said it, but I'm studying how I want to and you can just leave me alone. Or better yet, do the whole fucking thing for me, then you could do whatever the fuck you want. Not like I fucking give a shit anymore.
I am SICK and TIRED of you always being on my case, you never leave me alone and always think I'm doing it the wrong way. I'm an adult, I'm old enough to do it myself, the way I want to do it.
I'll fucking prove you wrong. I cannot wait to throw that piece of paper in your face.