The evening began with more screaming. The second I went into the kitchen the first blow came. She was bright red and I could tell that she had been crying as fury rippled through her face. She looked old, her gray brown hair was thinning and she looked tired. She came towards me and gripped me by the shoulders. Screaming at me with her sour, warm breath grazing over my face she managed to choke out,
“Why do you do this to me? My life would be so much easier if you had never been born. You don’t understand do you?” She exclaimed in a mocking tone. “Go to your room and stay there. You will go without dinner tonight… That will show you to skip work for school.”
She let go of my boney shoulders and shoved me towards the staircase again. She turned around, with her hands balled into tight fists.
“Don’t you understand that you have to work? I refuse to waste my money sending you to school.” She said through gritted teeth.
You see, I like school. I’m smart and I get good grades. But, I don’t have many friends, just the one, really. He seems to understand me in ways that no one else can. He can relate to what I go through every day and we comfort each other.
My mother and I have always had a rocky relationship. She has always made me hate her and myself because of her constant yelling and anger. She would treat me with love one minute and make me feel wanted and… well, human. But the next minute she would yell. Tell me I’m worthless and unloved. It was all part of her game, or so she liked to say. Her mental tricks made me feel just as ugly as she convinced me that I was, these tricks groomed me to be an emotional rock. I don’t even remember the last time I cried. What’s the use anyways? It won’t help. It won’t make her lighten up… trust me, I’ve tried and that ship has sailed.
As I climbed the steep, old staircase to my bedroom, I took notice of each small fiber in the musty, orange shag carpeting. This is how she made me feel, small, every day of my life. I was tired of it. I wouldn’t miss her. I hated her. I wouldn’t miss this house. The house that was always cold when I needed warmth. I wouldn’t even miss my dog, my mother’s evil minion. I hated the thing, I really did.

I sat on my bed examining the little cracker box of a room that I had lived in my entire life. It was the middle of winter and it was frigid outside. I was to meet him at 9:30 tonight; it was now 9:15. I put on my coat and hat. As I shoved up the white, rotting window and slipped through the opening, I looked into my room again, I wouldn’t miss anything.

The night was cold and windy as I trekked through the shallow snow. There was a bitter wind that pinched at my cheeks and nose and pulled at my coat. He came up behind me and grabbed my arm slightly between his hands. He wasn’t wearing a coat; he looked rough, bruised.

We walked, fingers laced, to the frozen pond on the other side of our neighborhood. This had been the plan for as long as I can remember. When we reached the pond surrounded by tall trees, a dank yellow glow illuminated the frosty surface of the frozen pond. It was dark everywhere else.
We took a long look at each other and stepped onto the pond tenderly holding our hands together. We weren’t sad. We were ready. It was time. Through parted lips he gave a small smile, “To the wreck of lives that we led and to our eternal happiness after this night.” I squeezed his hand tighter, wishing that I could never let go. I raised my eyes to meet his, “And to loving you forever.” We took a step toward one another and pressed our lips together to feel the glowing spark that has connected us all this time. Then it came, a quick crack of the ice, and then silence.