Under a Silent Moon

7

Chapter Seven: Gone with the Wind

LANA

I shouldn't let people like Amelia get to me, but there's something about her incessant harassment that eats away at my very core despite my attempts to drown it away. I'd like to think I'm a pretty decent human being. I don't bother anyone or try to make people feel badly about themselves. I live and let live, and still, I can not ascend the ladder of life without being knocked down a few rungs every day. I've fallen down so many times at this point that the ladder can't be repaired, and even if it could be, I've run out of strength to climb.

It's for these reasons--or excuses, if you will--that lead me to the flask under my mattress after school. As I lay on the covers, shoes still laced, Terrence chewing away at his cage, I wait patiently for the numbness to consume me.

Amanda--not as considerate as Blake--barges into my room just as unconsciousness is about to take over. I can usually hide my drunkenness under the guise of tiredness. If Mom hears Amanda intruding on my me-time, she reminds her that I'm "sick" and need rest. This is also what Mom tells herself to ease the guilt of not being emotionally available for me to confide in.

I'm just about to grumble at Amanda to go away, but this time I've made a mistake. My flask is still loosely in my grasp, visible for all to see. The blinding light from the hallway prevents me from seeing my sister's expression, but I can hear her sharp intake of breath before she bellows "Mom! Lana's drunk again!"

I try to say "No I'm not" but it comes out in a slur. I roll over, tucking the flask under my pillow, and attempt to sleep despite the onslaught of lecturing I'm about to receive. I hear Mom's footsteps ascending our creaky wooden stairs and she's standing at the foot of my bed within a second, as if she merely teleported from the stairs to my room.

"Lana, really?" she asks, and I'm sure her hand is on her hip even though I keep my eyes sealed tight. I feel childish. Maybe if you pretend she isn't there, she'll go away.

"I can smell your booze from the hall," she says, and I realize the flask must have leaked. My sheet is damp under my pillow.

I groan and roll over, eyes still shut. "Can you just leave me alone, please? I'm depressed, remember?"

I attempt to use that excuse sarcastically despite it not being a joke at all. Mom uses it as her excuse not to have any conversation of value with me, so why can't I?

She lets out a defeated sigh and I can imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose irritably. "Let me get you help, Lana."

"I don't want your help."

"Not mine. A professional. Maybe they can help get you out of this slump."

I stifle a laugh, or at least try to.

"This isn't funny, Lana."

"You're damn right. Let me sleep."

"Where is it?" she demands and her voice is closer.

"Where's what?"

"The fucking alcohol, Lana." Mom rarely cusses. She must really be at her wits end this time. I'm too intoxicated to give a damn.

I grin, knowing this will surely piss her off. I'm not sure why I'm pushing Mom's buttons so forcibly today. Perhaps out of boredom? Or the fact that I might not have too many more opportunities to do so? We often leave each other alone based on past interactions. And by past interactions I mean me telling her that I'm sad for no reason, and her telling me to take a walk outside. Or me experiencing persistent feelings of dread, contributing to my insomnia, and trying to crawl into bed with Mom only to be forced back into my room. "I'm trying to sleep, Lana. I have work in the morning. God knows I'm the only one making any money around here."

"Oh no, I am not playing this game." I feel Mom's cold, bony hands on my arms, pulling me into a sitting position. Finally, my eyes flutter open and struggle to focus on her. All I can distinguish is her high cheekbones and blonde hair that frames her thin face.

"Tell me where it is, Lana!" Her breath smells of coffee and the licorice she keeps in a bowl near the armchair.

She tugs open the drawer of my nightstand and I say, "Cold."

Despite the drunken haze I'm in, I'm pulled into almost complete sobriety when Mom slaps me hard across my face. I blink twice, and her features finally become clear. Her lips are pursed into a thin line and her blue eyes are wide with surprise, but also something darker. Contempt? I've never seen such an expression on my own mother's face. She glances at her hand that's still poised in the air and I follow suit. Her lips part slightly to speak and I don't stick around long enough to hear if it's an apology or a continuation of her lecture.

I grab my bag that's hanging on my desk chair and fly down the stairs so quickly I almost trip. Swiping my favorite green jacket from its hook, I barrel out the door. Before I leave the perimeter of my home, I almost want to pause. Glance back just for a moment to see if Mom's running after me, fumbling over her apology as she tries to catch up with me. But the realistic part of me knows that this scenario is unlikely, and to avoid further pain, I don't stop at all. I don't look back. I shrug into my jacket and send a quick prayer to a god I'm agnostic about that Terrence will find a loving owner in my place. It's a shame I had to leave like this, but I can't go back. I'm ready. Tonight's the night.

I rummage through my bag, hoping my phone is in it, and when I feel the cool glass beneath my fingertips I clench tightly and pull it out along with several receipts that are taken by the wind. I open my friend's group chat and text "love you guys" to Carly and Sebastian. I flip the switch to turn my sound off and throw my phone back into my bag, heading straight for the highway.

Despite the setting sun, Route 60 is bustling. The vehicles zoom past me in a blur, and as I approach the guardrail, I very soundly consider just walking straight into traffic. It would probably be quick and painless, but on the off-chance that the impact wouldn't kill me and instead break every bone in my body, I don't think I could endure that kind of torture. This thought process begs the question--if I'm so afraid of dying, why do I want to die?

Because, I answer myself mentally, because you're a coward and this is what cowards do.

I walk along the road's shoulder, sucking in deep breaths to steady myself. Mom never hit me before, why was tonight different? Am I really that much of an embarrassment that I pushed her to violence? Mechanically, I pull my phone back out of my purse and click on Blake's smiling face in my speed-dials. He picks up on the second ring.

"Hey Lana," he answers, and the tightness in my chest releases ever so slightly.

I open my mouth and quickly realize that I'm not sure what I planned on saying.

"Lana? Are you okay? Where are you?"

I'm sure he can hear the cars barreling past me, and I'm not sure how I'm going to explain that. I want to tell him that I got drunk again. I want to tell him Mom slapped me. I want to tell him that I ran away.

I want to tell him that I'm going to end my life.

"Yeah, hey. I'm fine," I finally blurt out. I clear the lump in my throat and speak louder. "I'm just taking a walk and wanted to hear your voice."

I hear laughter on the other end of the receiver and can't help but grin myself. Blake's laugh is contagious, always has been.

"If you already miss me so much I'm not sure how these next few months are going to go."

I can't help the tears that spill over my cheeks. I swipe them away and they're gone with the wind.

"I'll be alright," I say, trying my best to hide the emotion in my tone. "Are you going to be okay? Being away from your favorite sister?"

He laughs again. "Amanda is more like a gremlin anyway, so she doesn't really count as a sister."

Now I'm laughing. Blake loves Amanda, but she and him don't have the same connection that he and I do. For that, I'm grateful.

Up ahead, I see the dive bar that sells alcohol to minors. Mom slapped the drunkenness out of me, so I could really use a drink to deliberate what I'm going to do next. I tell Blake to have a good night and I almost tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow, but I swallow the lie and hang up instead.