Short Story For English

Wholesome, practical, and independent; those were the words that used to describe my daughter. Nowadays, she comes close to Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll. It was terrible enough that she became a malicious, scheming, conniving 16 year old girl; or that she enjoyed being hit on by men much older than her; or even the fact that all her aspirations had slipped down the drain and into the sewers of future prostitution and drug dealing. What hurt the most was that I had helped her transform into something that I was ashamed to call my daughter. Unknowingly, I had lit the path for destruction. I hadn’t even realized it until it was too late. I was in denial for much longer than I should have been. How could I have ignored such a rising issue right before my eyes? That is why I blame myself. I take full responsibility for her insensitive actions. After all of this conflict, I still ask God: Why did it have to be our family? We had suffered enough hardships. It was difficult enough letting go of Andy, my old boyfriend, and his arrogant lifestyle. Reading the note that he had left 15 year old Bridgette and I broke my heart. He left us at rock bottom, leaving so much as a dime in return for staying in our lives so long. But if my daughter was to leave me as well, I don’t know what I’d do. I was determined to be there for her no matter how awful things got. She was already scarred by mistreatment. Her real father had left us too. I couldn't stand to leave her disappointed once more. Her inability to love properly, and receive affection was the result of not having a real dad. I thought, by acting more as her friend and less as her mother in times of need, I would be aiding her. I thought my idea would make her feel more comfortable, not only with me, but with herself. Bridgette could become more secure, and maybe even start to open up to people. Obviously, I highly underestimated the damage my choice could have done. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself that she had made decisions to get her where she is now, I still feel faulty. I sense I have failed my daughter for the life that I never had.

Bridgette’s change occurred gradually, making it even more so painful to endure. She was always an intelligent girl, no matter how much she tried to hide it. Her innate ability at math and sciences never seemed to matter much. I took them for granted. I never realized how significant her marks were until they were gone. One of the last times I actually saw her silently doing her homework was on a Thursday evening. Sitting on her newly polished chestnut desk she got for Christmas; the lamplight shined on the pencil shavings lying next to her. Her dark brown mahogany-colored hair swept over her shoulders. She had her porcelain skin hidden in a dusty book. Bridgette always looked beautiful and peaceful, even when she was working on a school assignment. I didn’t want to disturb her. I slowly began to close the door, careful not to make any noise. However, the door was an old one, and sure enough, I saw her lift her head and spin around in search of the sound.

“Mom?” she called

I opened the door completely.

“Hi sweetie, just checking up on you”, I smiled

“What for?” she laughed. She had a wonderful laugh.

She turned back around and returned to her studies. I crept out wishing not to bother her again.

Another thing I missed was the calmness between us. We had our disagreements, but we generally got along. We weren’t necessarily what you may call ‘close’, but we had a special bond beyond a mother-daughter relationship. We understood each other in ways words had no meaning. What had caused our silence could have been a number of things. When Andy left 8 months previously, we had a slightly stronger relationship. We were brought together more as a family, and less as a broken home. But after he left, I was left crying myself to sleep every night. As for Bridgette, she was in her room most of the time. She was furious, I could tell, because she would snap at the very little mention of the name ‘Andy’. I didn’t know much about Bridgette because we both kept to ourselves. We had that in common, our uncanny ability to ignore our problems, secretly hoping they’ll go away. But something I did recognize was her lack of friends. I noticed this by the countless times I drove her to school in the mornings. As soon as she stepped out in her worn-down 1985 Vintage Converse shoes, she was called a name. Most of the kids made fun of her for her appearance. The way she dressed was mainly ridiculed. I always felt troubled by this. Solely, because of the parting of Andy. Raising a growing teenager and myself with less than $20, 000/year salary was a struggle. The kids at school were cruel to her. Yet, I had never mentioned or asked her about it, and now I regret it.

It started off with a boy at school. A boy, named Hayden, actually invited her to a mixer the high school kids were having. I don’t know how she agreed to his, considering her past torture with the same people previously. I suppose she got into the wrong group and went from there. Anyhow, to Bridgette’s explanations, Hayden was the ‘hottest guy in school’. I didn’t need much to gather up that she really liked this guy. He must have been really handsome, the way her cheeks flushed when I mentioned him gave me a clear sign that she was head over heals for this one. Eventually, they started to date; Bridgette’s first boyfriend. Hayden was apart of the inner circle, and I guessed that he brought her into it as well. Since that point on, she had scores of friends. However, I couldn’t help but notice she was linked to the same people who had brutally taunted her through junior high and some of high school. Nonetheless, I wanted her to enjoy her teen years, and now she finally was.

She began wearing make-up. Thick, black eyeliner shadowed her already baggy eyes, followed by incredibly long black eyelashes coated by bulky amounts of mascara. She used pale lipstick, almost nude. The make-up somewhat bothered me. It caused her to look older and much less like herself. But it was the new clothes that completed her already wild exterior. It seemed to me that alongside her new look, came another personality as well. Bridgette acted as though she was some crazy, party girl. Even though all of these things disturbed me, I never said a word. I encouraged her behavior with her friends and even at school. I laughed when she enlightened me with her stories that usually ended up with some form of danger. I wanted to be her friend. Being her mother wasn’t as rewarding. She didn’t confide in my when I was her mother. I felt included and loved by her as her friend. And I wasn’t planning on changing anytime soon. Bridgette still had her common sense. She knew where to draw the line. She knows where to stop and when to start. Bridgette has always secretly wanted to get with the cool crowd. I could see it in her eyes while we drove past them near the front doors. But I didn’t realize she wanted to so desperately.

Bridgette was generally a tame girl. She didn’t get involved with much trouble until she made her new friends. It never occurred to me that she could be doing something really harmful to her body. All my views on my daughter changed one lazy Sunday afternoon. I was washing laundry while the warm sunlight shone across my face through the dirty window pane. I headed up to Bridgette’s bedroom to gather up the last of the laundry. I searched through the jungle she calls her closet. I was shocked at what I saw under a pile of clothing. Dozens of bottles of alcohol stood crammed into a tiny space in her closet. I stood there examining the bottles. Vodka, Rum, Whiskey, Gin, Irish Crème, Brandy, and even Wine stood before me. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. I got this sick feeling my stomach as if I was about to throw-up. I tried to think of solutions. I would need to confront her immediately. My innocent 16 year old daughter had tricked me into thinking she was the same after all. Bridgette became a spontaneous young lady, but not a stupid one. I sat on her soft bed, holding my head in my hands, trying to collect my thoughts. I opened my eyes but didn’t get up. I saw an unfamiliar piece of clothing poking under her bed. I pulled it out. Along came several other clothes; all whom had tags still attached. Where had these come from? A lump swelled up in my throat. No. She wouldn’t. She had more sense than that. I knew we didn’t have much money, but she wouldn’t resort to something so low as stealing … would she? I started to pace. Why hadn’t I noticed? Bridgette wasn’t in the house right now. Where could she be? Is she drinking? Is she stealing? My mind was racing. Hundreds of questions were aching to be answered. I thought about the last few months. We had become a lot closer. Bridgette and I talked about personal things; school, boys, and even Andy. We shared a lot of things we kept shrouded over the years. She became much more open and outgoing once she made new friends. It became easier for the both of us to be more as friends as well. Had I let that new sentiment get in between my sense of protection for my daughter? Just as I considered this, the front door creaked open.

“Bridgette, can you come down here please?” I hollered. I was careful to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Yeah, give me a second”, she called back.

She made her way downstairs. She clumsily threw her purse on the floor, kicked off her shoes, and sat next to me. She didn’t look very awake. I wanted to ask her where she was, but there were more important things on the line.

“I need to talk to you about something”, I started.

She started at me drowsily. Bridgette was clearly not all there.

I brought out the bottles. Then, the clothes. Then I sat down next to her again.

“Why are you drinking?” I asked sternly, “Where did these clothes come from? We don’t have possibly enough money for all of these”.

She stared blankly at the floor. She was alert now.

“I’m sorry”, she whispered. She didn’t dare look at me. I was glad though, because I was fighting back tears.

“Bridgette, how could you?” I cried. I looked at her. She looked like a mess.

“I let you have fun, I let you go out with your friend, I let you do whatever you want! And this, this is what you repay me with. I knew something bad was going to come out of your new friends, I knew it. There are dozens of bottles here. And these clothes? Honestly Bridgette!” I roared.

“You knew! Don’t lie, I know for a fact that you kn-“, she shouted back.

“I DIDN’T KNOW IT WENT THAT FAR!” I bellowed. I saw her jump as I yelled those last few words.

“I don’t know what to say”, she murmured.

“You don’t need to say anything, Bridgette. Just – Just don’t forget who you are”, I finished speaking. I left the room swiftly. I caught a glimpse of tears rolling down her face. I should have known better. She was such a beautiful girl, why did she want to be so ugly?

* * *
The next graying morning, there was a note hanging on the refrigerator. There was the recognizable writing of Bridgette. It wrote:

I’M SORRY

A horrible feeling rose up into my chest. This was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. I dashed down the aged stairs almost losing my balance half-way. I threw myself into Bridgette’s bedroom. It was deserted. There was nothing left. All her belongings were gone as well as her stolen clothes and the empty bottles of alcohol. The room still smelled of her. My balance gave way and my knees plummeted to the cheap carpet below me. The intense feeling of abandonment took over my mind and body. I had nothing left. My greatest fear had suddenly turned into reality. I was half-expecting to hear the creaky front door open and listen to the familiar footsteps walk across the threshold. I sunk unto the floor. I wished I could engulf into it.

I don’t remember exactly how long I laid on the bitter floor. After a while, I began to envy it. My insides became numb. I didn’t feel like a human being anymore. I felt as if I had lost some large part of me that disabled me from going on. I had never felt so empty in my life. I think I began to hallucinate. I imaged the sounds of the door and even thought I heard Bridgette’s voice a few times. I thought I was going insane. I wanted her back, even if it meant dealing with her obsession and problems with partying. For the first time in a long time, I prayed. There was nothing else to do. I could only hope for her to realize that we had both made mistakes, and to come back in search to correct them.

I woke up panting. I heard a noise. I rustled up from the sheets and scampered out of bed. I grabbed the baseball bat from under my bed. I couldn’t afford a home safety device, so this would have to do. I quietly snuck up to the window. I perched my head only enough to see for a few seconds. There was nobody in sight. I sighed with relief and made my way to bed. It couldn’t possibly be Bridgette; she had been gone for almost two weeks. What would make her come back now? Unexpectedly, I heard the creaky door opening. Surely, I heard footsteps coming closer into the hallway. I tightened my grip on the bat. I stood there, waiting to be struck with something. Out of the blue, the light flicked on. I wasn’t hallucinating this time. Bridgette was standing there in ragged clothes and tears in her eyes. I dropped the bat with a loud thud. I ran up to her with open arms. I hugged her harder than I thought I could. I was scared she would leave again. I held on even tighter. I wasn’t going to let go of her this time.