Page 1 of Wicked Lies Grow Wildflowers
CHAPTER ONE
MAEREN
My eyes are swollenfrom a restless night of crying; the scratches on my arms are still burning and red. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom, taking stock of myself in the mirror. I sigh, noting the bags under my bloodshot and tired eyes, coupled with my splotchy complexion. A glance at my arms shows the swollen and angry scratches running from elbow to wrist. Just another piece of evidence from my horrible night—a poor coping mechanism, I know. But when I can’t breathe, and the world feels as though it’s caving in, the burn of my nails tearing into my skin brings me down from my despair. It grounds me—even if the peace is only temporary.
I turn on the shower, stripping out of my crumpled night shirt and stepping into the scalding water. Breathing in the steam and letting the pelting water relax my tired body, I try to clear my throbbing head. Standing under the spray until the water runs cold I then step out in a daze, grabbing a ratty towel to dry off. I run the cotton over my arms last, taking care to be gentle with my raw skin. Now that my entire body is red from the hot water, you can hardly see the nasty reminder of how Ionce again let my emotions get the best of me.Get it together, Maeren.
Passing the kitchen, I contemplate eating breakfast, but I’m still too drained to eat, even though pangs of hunger ring inside of my stomach. My cat Gracie makes an appearance, meowing for her breakfast as she winds herself around my legs. I pour some food into her bowl and give her a few pets. The gray cat I adopted from a local shelter two years ago is my only real friend besides Sage. I’m usually not a pet person but I couldn’t resist her charm and she manages to make me feel less alone here. Plus, a gray cat named Gracie? Not a pun I could resist.
Rummaging through my dresser I find an outfit, making sure to choose long sleeves, grateful that it’s late September and fall is in full swing so I can easily hide the remnants of my vice. I always feel a little better when it's cool and crisp outside. Running a brush through my hair, I grab my cell phone and blow out a breath when I see a dozen notifications from last night and this morning—all from my mother, of course.
It’s nothing new but I’ll never get used to it. It will never hurt less to know I can never be what she wants me to be, orwhoshe wants me to be. Hell, I can’t even say the right things to placate her in normal conversation, let alone in an argument. Reading through the messages I try not to take offense and ignore her narcissistic behavior, but I can’t.
7:02 pm: You know you really hurt my feelings.
7:05 pm: I don’t know why you always blame me for your childhood.
7:05 pm: I did the best I could with you
9:33 pm: I’m sorry you think I was a shitty mother.
10:06 pm: I can’t believe I raised such an ungrateful daughter.
All classic replies from her and ones I’ve heard for years. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the headache I can feel coming on. I decide it’s best not to respond because the cycle will begin again as it always has. In fact, it’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I was twelve the first time I really got into it with her, the first time she ever made me want to die, when I began to count down the years until I could be free of her. Well—freeish. I’ll never be totally rid of her until she’s dead, because although I hold her at an arm's distance, my conscience won’t let me cut her off for good. In the back of my mind, there’s always a voice guilting me into justifying her actions, because, at the end of the day, she’s still my mom. How lucky am I?
16 Years Ago
My mother is screaming at me again because I have flag football practice after school and forgot to tell her about it. She doesn’t need me at home but who else would cook her dinner and clean the house? Ever since my dad walked out on us, she’s been this way. She needs me. But I used to need her and she was never there, not in any emotional or maternal sense. Funny how that works. I am more of a mother to my own self than she could ever be to me. My dad left us when I was six and though I don’t remember much from that time, I do know it irrevocably changed her. It’s been six years since she was left a single motherwith a child who she no longer really wants and oh, does she make that obvious in times like this.
“You’re quitting football. I don’t care if you want to go to practice, you're done. No more extracurriculars of any sort. I didn’t raise you to be ungrateful, and choosing to be at practice instead of here helping me shows otherwise!” She seethes, her eyes full of malice as she looks at me.
“ButMom, this is the only sport I play all year and the only time I see friends after school during the week. I promise I can cook and clean when I get home. Just please let me go!” I beg.
She walks up to me and grabs me by my hair, shaking me and screaming in my face now. “You are an ungrateful bitch of a child and I wish I wasn’t your mom. I fuckinghatebeing your mom, Maeren. Your dad should have taken you with him when he left because you’re just as worthless as he was! And to make matters worse, you look exactly like the piece of shit. You fucking disgust me.”
She loosens the grip on my hair, and I drop to the floor crying. Of all the times she's been awful to me, she's never been this bad. She’s never made me feel this low. My chest tightens with overflowing emotion and I feel like I can’t breathe, hopelessness overpowering all else. I scramble off the floor and run to my room, shutting the door and sliding to the ground in a heap of tears.
Present Day
I didn’t know it at the time, but this was only the beginning ofhow bad the next six years of my life would be. This was only the first night of many where I didn’t know how I could make it to eighteen. The first time I fell asleep wishing I wouldn’t wake up in the morning.
I snap out of the memory and swallow hard. I’m absolutely not entertaining this today. You’d think at twenty-seven I’d be able to get away from a traumatizing parent. Some people completely cut off toxic family members and I don’t know why I can’t do the same. Something keeps me roped in—maybe it’s my people pleasing tendencies. Or maybe it’s my longing for the happy family others get to have. I know things will never change, and I know I’ll never have a cute mother-daughter Hallmark-esque fairytale relationship with her, but I can always hope. And it’s that hope that keeps me stuck in this endless cycle of toxicity and disappointment.
Clicking on the coffee pot, I look around my tiny kitchen. Most of my things are hand-me-downs. I moved out the day I graduated high school, not wanting to be in that home for another second. I don't regret it, but it's been hard living on my own. Between rent, bills, and paying off the student loans for my useless business degree, there's just enough left to feed myself and put gas in my car. So regardless of how small or dated the place is, or where all the items inside of it came from, it's mine. Not my mother's.Mine. One small, seven hundred square-foot space of solace in this world.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the air, letting me know it's ready. Pulling out a chipped mug from the cabinet, I fix myself a cup before making my way to the table to text my friend Sage and see if she’s free.
I don’t have to work today and I need a breather. I let her know I’ve had a rough night and morning. She’s sympathetic as always, throwing in a few threats against my mother’s life between hersorry’s. She probably loathes my mother more thanI do, and if murder was legal, I think she’d gladly get rid of her for me. I’d probably let her right now, too. But the thought of that makes me feel guilty and I quickly wipe all ideas of harming my mother out of my mind.
We agree to meet up at the park to chat so I grab my jacket, bag, keys, and head out. I drive across town in my silver Camry, another accomplishment I’m proud of because though it's eight years old, it’s paid off and my own. Every step ahead I’ve made in life sets me a little further from mommy dearest, and maybe one of these days I’ll be so far away I won’t look back.
CHAPTER TWO
MAEREN
Pulling into the park,I spot Sage on a bench by the pond. I send her a wave before getting out of my car and walking over. I close my eyes and bask in the cool breeze on my face, inhaling the scent of drying leaves, welcoming the change of season and the way it makes me feel. I detest summer and the brutal heat it always brings with it; it seemed to stretch on for ages this year. The leaves are now turning gorgeous, rich shades of orange, red, and yellow. It’s the best part of fall and it makes me feel a little less hopeless; if they can change, wither, and grow anew, so can I.
“Happy Birthday, Bitch!” Sage yells out, standing up to give me a hug.
