AN: I've been thinking a lot and felt I needed write this bit of material.

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As sis and I exit the bus we're pelted with a slew of barbaric name calling with a side dish of relentless teasing. The real shame is these other kids aren't reaming us because of us, but because of who our mother is. Apparently the entire community has the impression she's a schizophrenic psycho. Small towns are so beautifully vicious.

Entering through the front door, nothing seems out of the ordinary at home. Mom is taking one of her usual impromptu naps so we're left to do whatever we want. The afternoon is spent playing in the basement and then watching our favorite afternoon cartoons. It isn't until evening that things start to go awry. Dinner makes out fine with the usual weekend macaroni and cheese. Mom eventually stopped making us dinner altogether. After a satisfying comfort meal, Mom takes her prescribed tranquilizer as always(Prozac is nonexistent at this time) then uses the restroom. Upon returning she takes another tranquilizer. Hey, wait a minute? Didn't she already take that? The ultimate battle begins when she lights up a cigarette.

Poor sis unknowingly has reactive airway, one step away from asthma, so she struggles to breathe as the carbon monoxide infiltrates her delicate lungs. She dives under the kitchen table trying to escape the whirlwind of deadly fumes. Why she hasn't run out the front door is beyond me. Maybe she's too afraid to. I'm a little irritated myself, but it's not something I can't handle. Mom gets so mad at sis she yells at her.

"Get out from under the table!"

"I can't breathe!" Sis cries, tears streaming down her face.

"Why not?"

"The smoke is making me sick!"

"Shut up and get out from under the table!"

Mom is so irate by now, she grabs her medication yet again and who knows how many pills she's taken this time? It doesn't seem to affect her anyway. Maybe this is an adverse reaction. I'm too young to know. So is sis, who's only 9yrs old. We find temporary relief as Mom takes another trip to the bathroom.

"Maybe you should get out from under the table," I suggest, even though I'm two years younger than sis.

She doesn't answer, but on pure instinct, gets out from under the table and snatches the two packs of cigarettes lying on the kitchen counter and hides them. Big mistake! Once Mom returns to the kitchen, she realizes her bottle of prescription drugs is empty and that her two packs of cigarettes are missing. Another outburst arises after this revelation.

"Where are my cigarettes?" She screams. "What did you do with them? Give me my cigarettes!"

Sis doesn't answer. She's not willing to fill her lungs with second hand smoke again, however, she's frightened and can't stop crying. As for me, I'm just an observer of the entire scenario.

"Where's my medicine? Did you take my medicine?! Mom hollers once again. "What did you do with it?"

Mom's got me on the spot now and I had nothing to do with her current situation. Sis has already run to her bedroom and I follow suit. I run to my own room and lock the door. We're both lucky we have locks on our doors, 'cause Mom takes the initiative to pound violently on Sis's door for about five minutes, screaming and hollering the entire time. Once that's over with she comes to my door to do more of the same. Only this time she doesn't stop pounding on my door for at least three or more hours. I'm not sure how long she's doing this. All the while she continues to scream.

"Give me my medicine! Give me my cigarettes!" I'm so tired and scared that I just want this to end. "I'm bleeding! My fingers are bleeding! Why am I bleeding?"

The pounding stops. I can finally relax, but I'm too wound up. I turn on the radio to calm myself down. I'll have to turn the radio on to fall asleep for the rest of my life. What I'm wondering is why mom took this all out on me? Why did she only yell and beat sis's door for such a short period of time and then go to my door and not stop for hours? Maybe it has to do with the fact I'm the only happy occasion she can remember before Dad accidentally crashed his car into a tree and died. Maybe it's because I look so much like him that she resents me for it. I honestly don't know. I'm just thankful she's not addicted to heroin. She probably would have busted the door down and beat me to a pulp. Sleep finally invades my body and I'm out until around eight o'clock the next morning.

I reluctantly walk out the bedroom door. All is quiet. Sis is in the livingroom watching Saturday morning cartoons. Mom is in bed, still sleeping. She'll probably sleep the rest of the day, which is fine with us kids. Then I take a good look at the outside of my bedroom door. What I see not only angers me, but scares the hell out of me. Splinters run along the top of my door where she'd been pounding all night. No wonder she bleed. Wow...that could have been sis...or...it could have and most likely would have been me if I hadn't locked my door. I may be young but I know this isn't how a mom is supposed to treat her children. Us kids are lucky Grandma's our legal guardian. What's both funny and sad is that we know Mom loves us.

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AN: I could write a zillion more things about this topic. Thanks for reading.