A/N - Before you critisize me on not using quotation marks, please note that that is the style of the story. It was inspired by the book Alligator by Lisa Moore.

Disappearing

The story starts with me. Just me, kneeling on the edge of the bathtub, scrubbing vigourously at a hideous black mark on my wrist.

Three days ago it was a Henna tattoo of intricate detail. It had been a work of art, a gorgeous Celtic cross designed by yours truly. Now it’s just a mess of black and grey ink, staining the bath water as I attempt to remove it.

The towel hanging over my shoulder slips and the end of it soaks up the water it falls into. I hold it in place with one knee. I stop scrubbing, staring at the once-white towel now absorbing the colour of the black and grey ink.

I remember the first time I had a nosebleed. Unaware of what was happening, sure I was going to die, I’d grabbed one of my mother’s bleach-perfect towels. The blood stained the cloth. My mother took it gently from my hands.

Use a tissue, she said. As I waited for the blood to stop pouring from my nostrils, I watched her soak the towel in water and bleach.

I’m sorry, I said. She pulled the towel out of the sink and held it up.

Good as new. I always wanted a pink towel.

This dye won’t some out of the cloth. My mother no longer has the magic touch, which mothers so sadly lose as their years stretch on. She’s often alone. I visit her sometimes, talk to her. She never answers. My brother says it’s because she doesn’t want to. I know it’s because she can’t.

I add more soap to the dark water. If Mother were here, I would already be tattoo-less. I scrub again, but stop because it hurts my skin. I start again, stop. Start. Stop. I’ll never get my job done this way.

My wrist is red and raw from my continuous assaults on the shameful mess of ink. My hair falls into my eyes. I want to push it away, but I’m elbow-deep in dirty water. Even if my hand were free, there would be too many knots in it. I don’t bother brushing it anymore.

My mother used to brush it every morning, combing out its dark lengths. She used to tell me I had my father’s hair.

But Dad’s hair is grey, I said. She smiled and ran her fingers through my curls.

It wasn’t always that way, nana. It used to be dark like this.

No one calls me nana anymore. It was a secret, between mother and me. I was her banana, small but wonderful, and always good. She was my mother. She was never anyone else.

My brother Danny was never good. Dad would always yell at him for this or that or the other thing. Dad was convinced Danny was a criminal. But I knew better.

Sometimes, when I was very little, I’d sneak into his room at night. He’d hold me very close and tell me that everything would be alright. He doesn’t do that anymore.

There are times when he comes home looking drowsy and red-eyed. Dad yells, and I know Danny’s done something bad again. Sooner or later, he’ll be gone. It’ll just be me and Dad.

Blood blooms from my wrist where I’ve rubbed my skin off. I take the dirty towel and press it against my pink skin. It stings, but I like it. It takes my mind off things I don’t want to think about.

I discovered the miracle of pain in the sixth grade. All of my friends were doing it.

Come with me to the bathroom, Katie. I need a quick fix. They’d bring me in and I’d try to avert my eyes from the silver flashes and red stains.

Eventually I started myself. Simple slashes, then deeper and deeper. I’d put the tattoo on that particular spot to hide my sixth-grade issues. I shouldn’t have bothered.

The blood fills the water. The mixture of dark ink and red blood and soap turn the bath brown. It’s a disturbing colour. I feel slightly sick but I continue to wash my skin.

Dad was furious when I came home with the tattoo.

It’s not real, Dad, I said, it comes off.

I stand up and step, fully clothed, into the water. Dark patterns swirl around me. I sit in the tub, my jeans stick to my legs. I feel trapped in my body. I slide down until I’m fully immersed. I almost want to drown in this dirty water, but Mother wouldn’t like it if I drowned.

Once, she’d looked at my wrist. Once, she’d cared.

These aren’t accidents, are they? she said. I didn’t think so.

I said: I’m sorry, mom. She hugged me.

I care about you, nana.

The tears stain my cheeks. I push myself up and take a breath. The air doesn’t taste clean. Not anymore. Everything is bitter tasting and dry. Mother deserves a better daughter than me.

My mother’s makeup is still here. She didn’t take it with her. I reach over and pick up an old container of mascara. I write my name on the dry half of the towel. The applicator dries up before I finish. My name is now Kati.

I throw the container across the room.. It hits the wall and falls to the ground, leaving a black trail. It has split open, and the liquid pools on the floor. Yet another mess to clean up.

Danny used to follow me around, cleaning up after me.

You’re a mud monkey, Kate, he’d say, laughing.

I miss his laugh. It was so loud, so joyful, so loving, but now it is harsh and painful. I hear it now as my clothes weigh me down.

He’s laughing at Dad, like he always does. I don’t understand why they fight. Neither does Dad, apparently.

Why do you insist on flouting my authority? He says. I hear Danny’s cold laugh and I shiver despite the hear of the water.

You never had authority, Dad, Danny hisses. He sounds like a snake. Mom had all the authority. And then you —

Dad shouts Shut up! I sink below the surface again to block out the sound.

We used to shovel the driveway together, Danny and I. He’d throw his coat into the snow back and we’d race. He’d always out-shovel me, and when I dropped out of the race, he’d throw a shovel-full of snow on me.

Ah! I’d say. The snow attacked me! And he’d laugh that loving laugh and call me a wimp.

Mother would open the window and call out to us.

Get in here and eat your food! She would extend the word, making it childish and fun. Fooooood.

She’s pretend she didn’t know what we were doing, but she’d been watching us through the slats in the blinds.

Mom’s the one who cared about us! Danny yells. Even underwater, I hear him clearly. You never gave a damn about me and Katie!

I hold my breath for a moment but there’s not enough air. I suck in a lungful of water and emerge, coughing and choking. I wonder if this is what it feels like to die.

I miss Dad’s response as my heartbeat picks up. I clutch at my throat, my head is spinning. The sight of swirling ink and blood blurs in front of my eyes. My airpipe clears suddenly, like a light turning on. I gasp in breath and sit up quickly. My heart slows.

The water is cold now. I reach out an turn the hot water on. It scalds my feet through my socks. I don’t take the plug out. I just sit. The tub fills and starts to flow over the sides and onto the floor. My skin is blistering from the heat.

I feel lost, pained, and alone.

Don’t do this, David, Mom said. It sounded weird for her to call Dad by his real name. You don’t need to do this. She reached for his hand.

Don’t touch me, Tracy. Dad shook. His hand turned toward her and she stepped back.

David, she said. Just his name.

He looked down at his hand and dropped it to his side. Mom relaxed visibly. I had never seen her so tense.

Go talk to Danny, nana, she said to me, but I didn’t move.

Mother? I asked. She didn’t look at me. Her eyes were focused solely on Dad.

David, she said again. He raised his hand and she screamed NO!

He shook his head quietly and whispered I love you, Tracy. She jumped toward him.

It was an instant reaction. There was a flash, a bang, a thump, screaming. My screaming, Dad’s screaming, as we held each other and stared.

The gun fell from my father’s hand. My mother’s hair fell across the floor. And there was red, staining the carpet, spreading slowly over the hardwood. Her eyes were wide and staring.

I hid my eyes in my Dad’s chest and he cried Oh my God, I’m sorry, Tracy, Tracy, I’m sorry.

Mom had all the authority, Danny yells again. And then you killed her. You shot her.

Dad sobs, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was an accident.

Footsteps pound up the stairs. Danny comes into the bathroom. He stares at the water and mascara on the floor, at me in my clothes in the tub.

I’m leaving, he says.

I know. I let the tears fall freely.

I’ll miss you, he says.

I know, I repeat. He sighs and kisses my cheek.

He wants to hug me, but I’m too wet, too sad, too bloody. I see the longing in his eyes.

Oh Katie, he moans, I want you to come.

I smile, You know I can’t. He touches my forehead.

I’ll come back for you, he says. I nod. He leaves. I hear a sob as the door closes.

Downstairs Dad is breaking dishes. Maybe he’s just washing them. It’s hard to tell.

Tomorrow I’ll visit Mother. I’ll put my arm around her cold shoulders. I’ll lie beside her. I’ll tell her about my tattoo, about how Dad made me take it off. Then I’ll kiss her name engraved upon the stone and go home.

I look at my wrist. The tattoo is gone. So maybe the story didn’t start with me kneeling beside the bathtub.

But that’s certainly where it ends.