Elisa's Journal

Frankly, I think I suck at this fiction stuff, but I'll try alittle longer to see if I get any better at all. Bear with me folks:

I recognize Alexis's sullen look through the window of the counselorr's office. How I've come to dread that stoney gaze. She's had it since she was a toddler. Her expression made her look like she was trapped in a box with one way mirror walls allowing others to see that soul crying out in pain but stopping her from seeing out at a world she saw as her harshest judge. I pause to take a deep breath and gather my wits, then I open the door and say, "What's up Alexis?" No response. "What the hell were you thinking, girl? I mean, how many times will it take before you learn that you can't keep breaking rules without getting caught?"

"Whatever. Just take me home and leave me alone," she responds, getting up and heading past me for the door.

I grab her by the arm and say, "Wait just a goddam minute. It's not gonna be that easy for you. You just had me yanked away from my rounds. I have some very sick patients to take care of on the ward. You just can't expect me not to be royally pissed at what's going on here."

She looks first at my hand on her arm and then at me, eyes stoney hard and bitter, lined with so much back eyeliner you'd think she was trying to use her makeup as a wall to shut out the world and the pain it brings her. "I said, whatever! I didn't ask you to come get me. Go back to your precious sickos for all I care. Hell, you can screw them all if that's what you want." She wrenches free and leaves the office without another word.

Embarrassed at having the whole interchange showcased in front of the entire office staff, I sign her name on the sign-out sheet and slink out behind her, avoiding eye contact with their disapporving stares.

The trip home is pure torture. The resentment thickes the air until it makes it hard to breathe. But I review what I plan to say in my mind and consider different punishments that are sure to endear me to her further. Once we get home, Alexis races upstairs and away from any confrontation that might force to to face what she's brought on herself. I'm too damn weary to deal with it any more than she is, but I know if I don't strike while the iron is hot, I'll forget everything I planned to say on the way home. Reluctantly, I trudge up the steps to her room.

Her door is plastered with all things negative. A mix of goth, heavy metal, drug paraphenalia, and the nostalgic immorality from my own day; Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley and Che Guevarra. I knock on the door. No answer. "Goddamit, open the door. You know we have to talk! I shout." Still no answer. I get a flathead screw driver from the gameroom--that I keep for that very purpose--and flick open the lock with no problem. I open the door to see her draped face down on her unmade bed."

"Alright Alexis. We ARE going to discuss this whether you like it or not," I insist.

"I don't have to discuss shit," she counters.

Before she can finish her smart ass remark, I see, just below the hem of her shirt a tattoo in the small of her back. "What in the name of Christ do you have on your back?" I ask. Is that I tattoo?"

"So what if it is? It's none of your damn business," she answers sullenly.

"Bullshit. I'm your mom. It's definitely my business. I lift her shirt further to get a closer look. The tattoo is some Chinese symbol--probably translates to "My mother is a clueless bich." I pull down her shirt in disgust to cover it up and ask, "What else have you done to your body?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you for a minute. I'll give you five seconds to give me the inventory of all you've don't to permanently screw yourself up and if you don't or if I don't believe you, I'm checking for myself."

"The hell you are. You stay away from me, freak."

With that, I grab her jaw and say, "Open up right now."

At first she refuses but When I repeat my command in that Mommy voice that melts the paint from the walls she complies, if reluctantly and defiantly. Her tongue stud blinks like a beacon at the entrance to Hell.

"Shit, I can't believe this. What else have you done?" She stares back, exuding hatred from every pore. I touch her left nipple and find a nipple ring.

Then she goes ballistic, yelling, "Fuck you! You molester." Her right hand swings back wide and flings forward, hitting me so hard on the left ear, I lose my breath. My ear rings loudly. The pain is so unbearable it feels like someone is jabbing a red hot ice pick through my eardrum. Met by a flurry of kicks and slaps, I do all I can to grab her arms and legs in defense, and fling her against the bed. Straddling her, I pin her down and look into her eyes, widened with adrenaline. I can feel her chest heaving for air and her heart racing. She looks like a frightened rabbit facing certain death in the clutches of a mountain lion.

"Get off me, bitch. I'm calling the cops, you child molester," she hollers, voice trembling.

In a forced smile I say, "Be my guest, hon. But guess what? They're going to ask you how old you are and when you tell them you're sixteen, they're going to laugh in your face. They wouldn't give a flying rat's ass if I hang you up by your nipple rings from a tree in our front yard. You're a minor. And I'm your mother. Hell, i could charge you with assault if I want too, because you just perforated my damn eardrum." I can feel a trickle of blood rolling down the left side of my face from my ear canal.

With that she settles down enough for me to loosen my grip. But once my guard is down, she wrestles free and runs out of the room and down the stairs. I can hear the front door slam as she leaves.