“I want to be like you.” I told my mother with absolutely nothing else to do but watch television.
“Yeah, why’s that?” She was sitting beside me with her morning coffee that consisted of more alcohol then coffee. I turned to look at her face. The deep stress winkles, mess up grease hair, fake blue eyes, and a torn up t-shirt my step dad owned. She took another sip of her coffee then looked at me. Her breathe smelled like vomit and stale un-brushed teeth, acid breathe I thought.
“Because,” I said turning back to the life time movie but watching her from the corner of my eye.
She cocked an un-plucked eyebrow and looked back at the television too. “That’s not a reason.” She took another sip.
“Do you really want to know?” I knew my answer would hurt her even before nodded her head. “Because I can feel sorry for myself when no one else does.” I stood up and looked at her surprised eyes, the smeared eyeliner staining her creased skin. She didn’t say anything but when she took a breath I shook my head and walked toward the front door of our apartment.
When the door closed behind me I thought I heard her yell for me to get back in there but I wasn’t listening. Maybe, even though I might have not realized it when I said it, but I meant to hurt her. To let her finally feel the pain and embarrassment I felt. But at that moment I didn’t care because I was thinking if I lied to her or not. Did I really want to be like her or was I doomed from the start?