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“Mom, you need to eat something,” I say shoving a roll in her hand. Her head rolls from side to side and her eyes shut. “Mother, I will call the doctor and have him tube feed you if you don’t eat this.” Her eyes open, and she slowly brings the roll to her lips. Finally, after four days, she begins to eat. “When I get back up here, this roll better be gone.” I get up and walk out of her room.
My mom still isn’t strong enough to get up and walk on her own, and the lack of food is making her even worse. A nurse called the day after she was released to see if she was doing alright, but I told her that my mom refused to drink or eat anything. All she did was sleep. Today she came over and put an IV in my mom’s arm, so she could get the liquids she needed.
Walking downstairs, tears fill my eyes. It’s been four days since I talked to Isabella and for some reason, I miss her. But she can’t just come into my life and tell me things about my family because she doesn’t know what my family is like. She doesn’t know what I’m going through.
“Kristy, I’m home!” Kevin shouts from downstairs. I walk down to greet him.
“Hey Kev, how was school?” I ask picking his shoes up off the ground and taking them over to the shelf.
“It was great! I finally got the courage to ask Lindsey out!” He exclaims. I stare at his smile. It’s the first time in a while that I’ve seen him truly happy.
“Kevin’s got a girlfriend. Kevin’s got a girlfriend,” I begin to chant. The smile vanishes from his face, but only for a second. I give him a noogie, as he sits down at the table to do his homework.
After a few minutes of battling algebra problems he looks up at me and asks, “How’s mom?”
I stop scrubbing the counter long enough to look at him. “She’s doing better. At least she’s eating now.” His face lightens up. “She had a whole roll, not nearly enough to stay alive on but at least it’s something.” I begin to scrub the countertop again. He turns back to his homework, so I throw the washcloth in the sink and walk up to my room. I turn on my computer. Waiting for it to load, I drum my fingers on the keyboard. Finally, my screen fills with all the icons, and I open up the internet. I click the username box and slowly type in TheLostOne. Then, I tab to the password box and type that in as well.
“You have mail!” the speakers sing as the words One new message pops up on the screen. I click them and open the message from Isabella.
“You’re right; I’m sorry,” is all she said. I click reply and place my fingers on home row.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. I didn’t mean to get so mad. Will you forgive me?” I click send. A few minutes later another message appears.
“You’re already forgiven. Besides, what would life be like if we are mad all the time?” I sit back in my chair and study the words. What would life be like if we are mad all the time? Leaning forward I type, “Life would be exactly like my life.” I send it then log off.
Here I am mad at my mom for getting herself sick, my “friends” for the whole drug incident, Isabella for just trying to help, Steve for almost raping me, and even Kevin for the littlest things like not hanging his coat up, but Isabella doesn’t seem to ever be mad. How can someone go through life without getting mad once? It’s not possible.
“Kristy,” Kevin calls from downstairs, “what do you want for dinner tonight?” I get up from my chair and walk over to the door.
“Why don’t I take you out to eat tonight? Restaurant of your choice,” I shout down the stairs.
“Really?” he exclaims, getting up and walking to the bottom of the staircase.
“Sure, why not?” I reply. The smile on his face becomes the size of Texas.
“Let me just check on Mom, and then I’ll be right down.”
“Okay!” I walk to the end of the hallway where my mom’s room is and lightly tap on the door before opening it. I walk silently in the room, hearing her light snore. Half of the roll lies on the floor by her bed. Sighing, I pick it up and put it on her dresser, hoping that when she wakes up she’ll eat more of it. Walking out of her room, I close the door silently, and walk down the stairs. I slip on my flip-flops and pull my sweatshirt over my head.
“Hey Kev, are you ready?” I yell down the hallway. Seconds later he’s by my side, and we’re walking down the sidewalk, away from the house.
“Where do you want to go?” I ask him. He looks up at me and smiles.
“Applebees!” He says.
“Applebees it is then. Do you want to walk or take the bus?”
“Walk,” he replies. I’m old enough to get my license, but I just don’t want to. I hate having to have all my attention in only one place. Even when I do my homework, I either watch television or listen to music. With me behind the wheel, I would probably kill more people than just myself.
Kevin and I walk, making a small conversation here and there, but mostly we just look at the fall colors on the ground. Finally, Kevin breaks the silence.
“When do you get to go back to school?” he asks me.
“Next Monday,” I reply. He stops walking and looks at me.
“What did you do to deserve three weeks of OSS?” At first I didn’t answer, but finally I reply, “I was helping some people out with an act that we shouldn’t have been doing.” He nods his head as if telling me to go on, but then he starts walking again. I walk alongside him until we reach Applebees.

When we get home, I stick the leftover chicken fingers in the fridge and walk upstairs. Going to the end of the hallway, I open up my mom’s door. She’s lying very still, but her eyes are open. She doesn’t even bother to turn her head to see who disturbed her.
“Mom?” I say sitting on the end of her bed. The half roll is still lying on the dresser, probably hard by now. I pick it up and begin to toss it from hand to hand.
“How are you feeling, Mom?” She continues to stare off into space. I pick up her icy hand, then drop it and continue tossing the roll around. “Do you need anything?” Her lips quiver as if she were about to say something, but nothing comes out. I stand up angrily wishing she would talk. I walk to the door. Turning the knob, I look at her once more. The way her eyes are like a black hold, dark and never-ending, gets me even angrier. I throw the roll as hard as I possibly can, and it hits her on the head. She doesn’t move.
“Fine Mom! Be that way! Just remember who changes your water bags!” I shout, hot tears filling my eyes. I run down the hall to my room and collapse on the bed. I sob into my pillow, trying to figure out why I’m so mad. She’s sick! I shouldn’t have yelled at her. Throwing the rolls was probably the worst thing I’ve ever done to my mom.
After an hour, my tears just seem to stop, and I roll over onto my back. Wiping my face, I walk to the bathroom and strip. I turn on the shower; without looking in the mirror, I get in. The water hits my back with its deathening heat. It hurts for a little while, but my skin soon gets used to the pain.
I step out, dripping water lands on the floor with tinkles. My skin is hot, and the lights seem to be much darker than before. The whole room is covered with a thick fog making it harder to breath. I dry off the pull on a pair of underpants, and then slip my robe on. Opening up the bathroom door, I step out and am greeted by cold air. I take in a deep breath, liking the way it feels on my lungs. I walk back to my room and sit back down at my computer desk. I log in to my account and am greeted by a new message. I open it up.
“Why are you always angry?” asks Isabella.
“I have a lot of reasons to be,” I type back. Moments later another message appears.
“Do you want to talk about them,” it reads. I click reply.
“Not particularly,” I type. Then, thinking about the way I treated my mom I type, “I wish I wasn’t so angry at my mom. I think I may have hurt her tonight.” I click send and sit back in my chair. What if I really did hurt her? What if I made her cry? Why do I have to be such a b***h all the time? MY thoughts are interrupted by a cheerful you’ve got mail! I click the flashing words.
“What did you do?” she asks. Tears fill my eyes.
“I yelled at her, and then I threw a roll at her head.” Seconds after I send it, another message appears.
“I’m sorry, but that just made me laugh really hard,” Isabella replies.
“Why?” I ask.
“‘I threw a roll at her head.’ You don’t hear that one every day,” she says moments later. I laugh, realizing how true that is. It isn’t often that you hear that somebody physically hurt someone else with a dinner roll. After getting my laughter under control I click reply and type, “I guess you’re right. It is funny.”
“I told you so. Anyway, is she okay?” asks Isabella.
“I don’t know. I left right after it hit her head. I don’t know what to do now. I feel really bad, but then I also feel good in a way. It’s like I showed her that I’m more powerful than her, and she should obey me, but I’m not sure I like the feeling of being stronger than my mom. I don’t want her to feel weak and useless, but I think that’s how I made her feel,” I type in response.
“Sounds like you want to apologize,” she replies. I sit back in my chair and think about that. Do I want to apologize? Do I want to make things right with her again? Did I even screw anything up between us? Was there anything between us in the first place? We’ve never had a really big mother-daughter connection before, but we’ve never really fought all that much either.
“I don’t think apologizing will make any difference,” I finally type. I stand up and go to my bed’ carefully tucking the covers in, I give my hands something to do. After about ten minutes, I sit back down in my chair and refresh the page. There are no new messages. Isabella must’ve logged out. It’s as if she wants me to make the decision on my own. I get up and walk down the hall to my mom’s room. Quietly I open the door and slip in. Her eyes are closed, but I go over and sit by her anyway. Picking up her hand, I look at her face. Since she has gotten sick, she’s looked older. Her face has more wrinkles then it used to, and she looks really worn out.
“Mom,” I begin even though her eyes are still closed, and her hand is limp. She’s probably asleep, dreaming about some fantasy land that will never exist no matter how bad we want it to. “I’m sorry for throwing the roll at your head.” A small giggle escapes my lips. I put my hand on my mom’s head and glance at the spot the roll hit her. There’s a tiny bruise. The loss of blood has made her body so weak that even the slightest bump can leave a mark. Tears form in my eyes; I swallow the lump in my throat and continue.
“I’ve just been really mad lately. I haven’t been sleeping well, and I’ve just been busy with house work. Sometimes, I just wish you’d get your a**… I mean butt… out of bed and help out around here some.” Her eye lids flutter as if she’s going to open them, but she continues to sleep.
“I know you probably have no clue what I’m saying, but I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.” A few tears escape my eyes, but I don’t wipe them away. I stare at my mom for a little while longer, tears streaking my face. One last time I murmur, “I’m really, really sorry.” I release my grip on her hand and realize that she was squeezing my hand the whole time. She lets go, and I get up. Wiping my tears away, I walk out of her room and smile on my face. I go back into my room and sit down at my computer. Just as I suspected, there’s a new message from Isabella.
“I’m sure it would,” is all it says. I smile to myself and click reply.
“She slapped me!” I lie. Moments later another message appears.
“Oh my gosh! I’m sorry. It was worth a try though, wasn’t it?” she says. I giggle.
“Actually, she didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at me,” I reply.
“You didn’t kill her, did you?” she asks.
“No, she squeezed my hand. I thought she was sleeping but apparently not.”
“I thought it would go some-what like that.”
“Did you, now?” I reply, logging off. I get up out of my chair and go downstairs. I put on my coat and shoes and run outside. I twirl around in the yard until I become dizzy. Then, I lay on my back, looking at the sun as it goes down. I don’t know how long I lay there for. I start humming a song that my father used to hum to me when he tucked me in, before he became a drunken drug addict. Moments later, I fall asleep.
Everything’s black. There’s not even the faintest light in the room, or hall or wherever I am. I cry out for help, but my voice only echoes off the walls. I walk, trying to find something solid, something familiar. I feel nothing, just air. It changes. Now I’m in the clouds or under the clouds; I can’t tell. I’m hanging, suffocating. I grab at the rope trying to get it off.
“Kristy?” a voice from behind me says. “What are you doing?” I try to turn my head, but the rope tugs tighter at my neck.
“Kristy, please stop it! You’re scaring me!” the boy screams. I force my head around, and I see Kevin standing there, tears in his eyes. Mouthing the words I’m sorry, the rope snaps, and I fall.
I wake up in a sweat, looking around. It takes me a few moments to realize where I am: my yard. I was in such bliss, a high, because my mom forgave me, I must’ve used up all my energy and fallen asleep before going inside. I get up from the ground, wiping the leaves off my coat. The moon shines down on me, giving off enough light to make it to the door without hurting myself. I drag myself inside and up the stairs to my room. Yawning, I drop my coat to the floor and kick off my shoes. I crawl into bed, pulling the blankets around me and closing my eyes. The image of Kevin’s horrified expression returns to my mind. I try to shove it out, to think about something else.
“Kristy,” he had said, “Please stop it,” as if I could control the fact that I was hanging there. His face had the same expression as the one from a few weeks ago when he walked into the bathroom to see me yelling at myself.

I must’ve fallen asleep again because the next thing I know, it’s morning and the birds are chirping. I pick myself up out of bed and walk to the top of the staircase.
“Kevin, you home?” I yell down. I go back into my room and look at the clock: 11:23. Kevin must be at school. I get dressed and run a brush through my hair. Waiting for my computer to load, I go into the bathroom and brush my teeth. Then, I go back into my room and sit at my computer desk. I place my fingers on home-row and type TheLostOne into the username box. After logging in, a message from Isabella appears.
“Yes, I did. She’s your mother. She’ll always love you no matter what you do.” Sure she will, I think to myself. If she knew what I did to myself, she wouldn’t love me anymore. She could never love anyone who was suicidal and not perfect.
“My mom loves perfection,” I type back. Moments later another message appears.
“It doesn’t seem like she’s very perfect, so why would she want you to be perfect?” I click reply.
“You don’t understand. My mom is perfect. She was the perfect wife and perfect mom before my dad left, and now this person that’s living in my house right now isn’t my mom. She’s not even close to how my mom is. My mom died when she cut herself and the person that has survived is someone new. I’ve never seen her before, and a part of me wants her to leave. She’s destroying this family even more,” I type. My fingers are flying so fast I can barely keep up with the words as they appear on the screen.
“How does this make you feel?” she replies.
“It makes me feel like I’m a teenage mom, and I have three kids to take care of!” I reply.
“Three?” she asks.
“My mom, Kevin, and my father. I know it may sound stupid, but my dad is like the troubled kid that ran away, and I have given up on him. I hate my father. I can say that without feeling guilty and stuff. Kevin is the good kid. I love him to death, but I don’t think I’m treating him the way I should be. I feel like I give too much attention to the other children to pay attention to the one that really matters. And my mom is like the sick kid, the kid with the disease. I feel like if I don’t pay enough attention to her, she won’t make it through her sickness and she’ll die. On the other hand, I want her to die because then I’ll have one less child to look after and because my father is gone, I can focus all my attention on Kevin and give him a good life. I don’t like my mom, but then I love my mom. It’s hard to explain. I guess I hate her as much as I love her, and it’s so frustrating because I feel like I’m never good enough for her. So I guess what I’m saying is, no matter how hard I try I’m going to make somebody unhappy, somebody mad, and somebody may even die. Sorry, I didn’t mean to write so much,” I reply. It takes a few minutes to type anything back, but soon a message does appear in the inbox, and I click it.
“Where do you fit in?” she asks.
“I’m the mom,” I reply, getting kind of angry that she just made me explain all of that, and she didn’t even understand what I was saying.
“No, that’s not what I meant. You’re so busy trying to make everybody else happy in your family, but what do you do that makes you happy.” I sit back in my chair and think about that. I don’t really do anything all day except for eat and sleep and take care of my “kids.”
“Nothing, I guess. It’s hard to make me happy,” I reply.
“What about friends? Do you ever hang out with them?” she asks.
“No, not really. I don’t have many friends. Actually the people I talk to at school do nothing but get me in trouble. Speaking of school, why aren’t you in right now?” She never seems to be gone. She’s always online whenever I am. It doesn’t make much sense.
“Today is a Jewish holiday. My school gets all these crazy days off. I don’t know why. Anyway, how do your friends get you in trouble?” I laugh to myself. Sometimes it seems that Isabella is so dense. Or maybe she just thinks I have school off for the same reason she does.
“Ask me why I’m not in school, and you’ll see why,” I reply.
“Okay then, why aren’t you in school?”
“I’ve been suspended for three weeks. Do you want to know why?”
“Sure, why were you suspended?” She asks.
“I was caught spray painting the lockers of the school, and I just so happened to have drugs at the time,” I reply. This is the first time I actually told anybody about what I did, or more importantly why I did it.
“I don’t get it. How do your friends tie into this” She asks.
“They put some very rude words on some kids’ lockers. Things like slut and f** and dyke. They also planted drugs in their lockers. Now I usually wouldn’t care. I would’ve just let it go because it’s not my fault that they come off as slutty or gay. If you’re going to act a certain way then you better face the consequences. It was the drugs that got on my nerves though. If they were just going to make fun of them, then fine. I’m okay with that. No kid should be suspended for something they didn’t do. Those students were the last people on earth to have drugs. They’re so nerdy and dorky, and it’d just be really hard to imagine them standing outside smoking a joint. So I took a spray can and painted over the words, and then I broke into their lockers and took the drugs out. I was walking to the trash to throw the junk out when I got caught,” I explain.
After clicking send, I sit back in my chair. Talking to Isabella seems so real, as if she’s sitting right across from me. I can almost hear her voice saying the words she types. I don’t know why, but I imagine her sitting on top of a cloud looking down typing her responses. It’s sort of like she’s looking into my soul or she’s opening up my head and taking the response out. Never in a million years would I be this honest with someone.
I get up and walk to the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror and realize that my eyes are no longer tired looking. They don’t look sad or mad, but they don’t look happy either. They look neither calm nor afraid. They’re emotionless just the way I feel. Will my eyes ever cry the way Kevin’s did in my dream? Will they have the biggest smile in them? Or will I always be emotionless little Kristy?
“Why?” I say aloud. “Why did I let you get this way?” I have turned into such a boring person. Why can’t I be someone else? If I were to look into Isabella’s eyes I would probably see thousands of other eyes, each one of them with a different emotion. Her eyes would be caring and happy and amazing.
I go back into my room and sit at my computer. The message sitting my inbox says something I will never forget. It makes my stomach flutter, and I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how what the message says could make me feel so happy, so alive.
“You’re not as bad as I thought you were, Kristy.”