Bubblegum #29, Fig #5
Author: winebabe
Title: Our Folks are Damaged Goods
Story: The Gemini Occurrence
Rating: R (language, not-too-graphic depiction of death)
Flavor(s): Bubblegum #29: robbed; Fig #5: The River Styx
Word Count: 1,838
Summary: 2020. October 12, 2020 is Mona's last day as a child.
Notes: Mona Lively, Devyn Lively, Cassandra Lively. (This might ring a bell if you read my Kingdom of Second Chances miniseries.)
Mona skips school almost every day once the weather gets bad enough, because she has friends--older ones--who will let her crash on their couches, mooch off of their food, and most importantly, they'll let her share their drugs. She knows she could stay home if she wanted to, because Cassandra won't care, but she just has to get out of that apartment. It's bad now; her mom's always home, always around, unwilling to leave for any reason. 16 year old Mona doesn't have any money so they don't have any food. It's getting cold and they don't have any heat.
Mona can't change anything, though, so she just chooses not to be around. Cassandra doesn't even notice, and if she cares, she sure doesn't show it. Mona doesn't care either. High school has taught her nothing, and she learns more on the street from her friends than she does in any classroom.
The one thing she does care about is her big brother, away at his new job in a school. He's the only one who seems to care about an education, and Mona does manage to feel some shame when he finds out she hasn't been attending her classes. It's short-lived, though, because he's not around to lecture her long term, and eventually she forgets. She knows she'll never be as smart as him, anyway, and that the odds aren't in her favor to get out. They're both damaged goods, she knows, but he's at least better at faking the opposite.
At the end of the day, Mona returns to the apartment, high and hungover and holding her phone in shaking hands. She stumbles along the sidewalk, trying to walk and read Devyn's texts to her at the same time. She's spent most of the day drinking with Richard, or Robbie, or whatever the guy's name was, and she only knows how to get home because of the city's landmarks she's managed to engrave into her memory. Her apartment is a left at the mural of two children who were shot by the cops nearly a decade earlier. Keep straight past the 7-Eleven with the bullet hole in the window. Cut through the park and then turn right, and sometimes if Martin isn't sitting on his balcony, smoking a cigarette and catcalling her, Mona forgets which building is hers.
It's an art, not a science.
Martin is sitting up on his balcony, though, and shouts down something vulgar about Mona's body as she climbs the cement steps up to the entrance. She barely even hears him as she yanks the door open and steps in from the cool autumn evening. Her phone buzzes in her hand as she walks up the stairs, and she glances down to read the text.
When you get home, ask mom what she wanted. She called me earlier but wouldn't answer when I called back.
ok, Mona texts back, even though she knows she probably won't get a chance to. Their mom's always passed out around this time, and she wonders how Devyn doesn't know it. He's not around to see what state Cassandra's life is in, she knows, but he lived with her longer than she has. It's not like she's ever been a good, attentive mother. It's not like she's ever had her life together.
I have a weird feeling, Devyn sends back, and Mona looks at the text but doesn't respond.
She wants to tell him that she always has weird feelings. She wants to tell him that she never feels safe, or secure, or normal. Instead, she just stuffs her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and fumbles with the lock on the apartment door.
The door sticks and she has to throw her weight against it to get it open, and after Mona flips the light switch on, the first thing she sees is her mother, passed out on the couch. It's the same scene she sees every day, so she shuts and locks the door, and then pulls out her phone to take a picture.
this is what i come home 2 every day, she tells Devyn and sends the picture along with the message. "Wake up, you stupid bitch!" Mona shouts, but Cassandra doesn't stir. "See?" she says to no one in particular. "Every goddamn day."
Wake her up, Devyn demands, and Mona can almost hear his shrill voice in her head as she reads it.
She does listen to him, though, and goes over to Cassandra to shake her awake. She's lying across the couch, her head tipped back, and Mona's already placed a hand on her shoulder before she realizes her mother's eyes are open. "Fuck, mom!" she shouts and jumps back. "Don't do that to me! Jesus Christ!"
Mona expects a shouting match to ensue, some long incoherent rant triggered by the fact that her daughter had called her a stupid bitch, but Cassandra doesn't yell. She doesn't even move, and Mona stands behind her for a long time, staring at her eyes, waiting for her to blink. She thinks it's a stupid prank, but Cassandra doesn't blink. She doesn't move, and Mona reaches out to push her shoulder. "Mom, come on," she says, and her body is cold and stiff.
"Mom," Mona says again, and stands there with her arms wrapped around herself, shaking. "Mom."
Cassandra's long, pale hair hangs over the arm of the couch, gently moving with the air in the apartment, but there's no other sign of life from the body on the couch. Mona watches closely for any blink, any rise and fall of her chest, but Cassandra is completely still. There's still a syringe in her hand, and it's not until Mona sees it that she truly understands what has happened.
From the back pocket of her jeans, her phone rings itself to life, and Mona answers the call robotically, without even bothering to look at the screen. "Hello."
"Mona," Devyn says, and she can hear in his voice just how tense he is. "Mona, she's dead, isn't she?"
"How did you know?" Mona asks in a vacant monotone. She can't tear her eyes away from her mother's corpse, stiff as a board on the dirty couch. "How did you know?" she repeats, forcefully, and pulls the phone away from her ear to shout into the receiver. "What the fuck, Devyn? What the fuck am I supposed to do?!"
"Call the police, Mona," he tells her, and then she can't read him. He doesn't sound tense anymore. "You're going to have to call police."
"Can I leave? Can I go somewhere else? I'm not staying her with her corpse, Devyn!"
"Mona, you can't leave! They're going to want to talk to you!" He sighs heavily and then tells her, "Get rid of your drugs--just yours--and call the police. They know mom's an addict. They aren't--" He breaks off to let out a groan, and Mona can envision him rubbing his hand over his face in exasperation. "They aren't going to be surprised."
"I hate her," Mona announces, staring at her mother's body. "I hate her. How dare she do this to me?"
"Mona," Devyn sighs. He doesn't sound sad, or devastated, or even shocked. He just sounds annoyed, like he always does when she calls him, crying, to complain about mom and her men, mom and her drugs, and mom and her bullshit mental illnesses.
She's been down the line with everything she could have complained about. Cassandra turning tricks in their apartment for drug money, having to hide out on the balcony in case any of the men get too bold and think they can have her, too. Cassandra calling her from the hospital or the local jail, demanding she call a laundry list of men who may come bail her out or pay her bills. Cassandra showing up at her eighth grade graduation drunk, Cassandra showing up at her first Homecoming dance high, Cassandra selling Mona's clothes to get drug money, Cassandra selling their TV, their couch, their beds for drug money. Cassandra hallucinating people to argue with in the middle of the night, Cassandra ranting and raving to parents of Mona's friends, Cassandra ruining her life.
But what now? What now?
"Where am I supposed to go?" Mona asks quietly. "I'm sixteen, Devyn, I can't live alone!"
"We'll figure it out," Devyn assures her. "Call the police, Mona. You can't stay in that apartment with a corpse."
"The corpse of our mother!" Mona shouts, suddenly angry at him for being so callous. "You're such an asshole, Devyn!"
"Call the police, Mona," Devyn repeats. "I'm on my way." He hangs up on her, and Mona is left starting at the body of her mother on the couch. The phone suddenly feels so heavy in her hand, and she lowers herself onto the floor just so she can catch her breath.
Rage bubbles up inside of her, briefly, but fades away before she can really do anything with it. She's tired suddenly, more exhausted than just the alcohol and pills could do alone, and she can hear sirens wailing on the street below. They grow louder and louder until they finally do the opposite, growing quieter as they turn and race elsewhere, and Mona looks down at her phone and wonders how she's going to manage to call 911.
Those same police arrested her mother time and time again. Those same police pounded on their door with warrants and flashlights and tired faces, carrying out the psychotic woman as she kicked and screamed and spat at them. Now, would they come in to shake their heads in pity? Would they muster some sympathy for her fucked-up daughter?
There is a small amount of comfort in the fact that Devyn is coming. He's just average enough, with his glasses and professor cardigans, his tired eyes and nervous energy. He'll be a buffer, she thinks, when the police come in expecting her to be a mini-me of her mother. They'll take one look at him, with his arm protectively around his sister's shoulders, and leave her alone. Maybe they'll think she's finally in good hands.
When she finally has the strength to get up, Mona flushes her drugs down the toilet. There's no reason to keep them if it means she could go to jail for it, and if she is on the streets after this, she has generous friends. She'll find more drugs. Cassandra's drugs, though, she leaves alone. There's no point; her mother never was a respectable person. She's been an addict for as long as she's known, and it's likely that every single officer who comes will have had a run-in with her at some point.
Mona stands in her mother's bedroom, next to the wooden box she keeps the heroin in, and finally dials 911. The operator is a woman, with a kind and clear voice, and Mona stares into the box as she tells the woman, "My mother is dead."
Title: Our Folks are Damaged Goods
Story: The Gemini Occurrence
Rating: R (language, not-too-graphic depiction of death)
Flavor(s): Bubblegum #29: robbed; Fig #5: The River Styx
Word Count: 1,838
Summary: 2020. October 12, 2020 is Mona's last day as a child.
Notes: Mona Lively, Devyn Lively, Cassandra Lively. (This might ring a bell if you read my Kingdom of Second Chances miniseries.)
Mona skips school almost every day once the weather gets bad enough, because she has friends--older ones--who will let her crash on their couches, mooch off of their food, and most importantly, they'll let her share their drugs. She knows she could stay home if she wanted to, because Cassandra won't care, but she just has to get out of that apartment. It's bad now; her mom's always home, always around, unwilling to leave for any reason. 16 year old Mona doesn't have any money so they don't have any food. It's getting cold and they don't have any heat.
Mona can't change anything, though, so she just chooses not to be around. Cassandra doesn't even notice, and if she cares, she sure doesn't show it. Mona doesn't care either. High school has taught her nothing, and she learns more on the street from her friends than she does in any classroom.
The one thing she does care about is her big brother, away at his new job in a school. He's the only one who seems to care about an education, and Mona does manage to feel some shame when he finds out she hasn't been attending her classes. It's short-lived, though, because he's not around to lecture her long term, and eventually she forgets. She knows she'll never be as smart as him, anyway, and that the odds aren't in her favor to get out. They're both damaged goods, she knows, but he's at least better at faking the opposite.
At the end of the day, Mona returns to the apartment, high and hungover and holding her phone in shaking hands. She stumbles along the sidewalk, trying to walk and read Devyn's texts to her at the same time. She's spent most of the day drinking with Richard, or Robbie, or whatever the guy's name was, and she only knows how to get home because of the city's landmarks she's managed to engrave into her memory. Her apartment is a left at the mural of two children who were shot by the cops nearly a decade earlier. Keep straight past the 7-Eleven with the bullet hole in the window. Cut through the park and then turn right, and sometimes if Martin isn't sitting on his balcony, smoking a cigarette and catcalling her, Mona forgets which building is hers.
It's an art, not a science.
Martin is sitting up on his balcony, though, and shouts down something vulgar about Mona's body as she climbs the cement steps up to the entrance. She barely even hears him as she yanks the door open and steps in from the cool autumn evening. Her phone buzzes in her hand as she walks up the stairs, and she glances down to read the text.
When you get home, ask mom what she wanted. She called me earlier but wouldn't answer when I called back.
ok, Mona texts back, even though she knows she probably won't get a chance to. Their mom's always passed out around this time, and she wonders how Devyn doesn't know it. He's not around to see what state Cassandra's life is in, she knows, but he lived with her longer than she has. It's not like she's ever been a good, attentive mother. It's not like she's ever had her life together.
I have a weird feeling, Devyn sends back, and Mona looks at the text but doesn't respond.
She wants to tell him that she always has weird feelings. She wants to tell him that she never feels safe, or secure, or normal. Instead, she just stuffs her phone into the back pocket of her jeans and fumbles with the lock on the apartment door.
The door sticks and she has to throw her weight against it to get it open, and after Mona flips the light switch on, the first thing she sees is her mother, passed out on the couch. It's the same scene she sees every day, so she shuts and locks the door, and then pulls out her phone to take a picture.
this is what i come home 2 every day, she tells Devyn and sends the picture along with the message. "Wake up, you stupid bitch!" Mona shouts, but Cassandra doesn't stir. "See?" she says to no one in particular. "Every goddamn day."
Wake her up, Devyn demands, and Mona can almost hear his shrill voice in her head as she reads it.
She does listen to him, though, and goes over to Cassandra to shake her awake. She's lying across the couch, her head tipped back, and Mona's already placed a hand on her shoulder before she realizes her mother's eyes are open. "Fuck, mom!" she shouts and jumps back. "Don't do that to me! Jesus Christ!"
Mona expects a shouting match to ensue, some long incoherent rant triggered by the fact that her daughter had called her a stupid bitch, but Cassandra doesn't yell. She doesn't even move, and Mona stands behind her for a long time, staring at her eyes, waiting for her to blink. She thinks it's a stupid prank, but Cassandra doesn't blink. She doesn't move, and Mona reaches out to push her shoulder. "Mom, come on," she says, and her body is cold and stiff.
"Mom," Mona says again, and stands there with her arms wrapped around herself, shaking. "Mom."
Cassandra's long, pale hair hangs over the arm of the couch, gently moving with the air in the apartment, but there's no other sign of life from the body on the couch. Mona watches closely for any blink, any rise and fall of her chest, but Cassandra is completely still. There's still a syringe in her hand, and it's not until Mona sees it that she truly understands what has happened.
From the back pocket of her jeans, her phone rings itself to life, and Mona answers the call robotically, without even bothering to look at the screen. "Hello."
"Mona," Devyn says, and she can hear in his voice just how tense he is. "Mona, she's dead, isn't she?"
"How did you know?" Mona asks in a vacant monotone. She can't tear her eyes away from her mother's corpse, stiff as a board on the dirty couch. "How did you know?" she repeats, forcefully, and pulls the phone away from her ear to shout into the receiver. "What the fuck, Devyn? What the fuck am I supposed to do?!"
"Call the police, Mona," he tells her, and then she can't read him. He doesn't sound tense anymore. "You're going to have to call police."
"Can I leave? Can I go somewhere else? I'm not staying her with her corpse, Devyn!"
"Mona, you can't leave! They're going to want to talk to you!" He sighs heavily and then tells her, "Get rid of your drugs--just yours--and call the police. They know mom's an addict. They aren't--" He breaks off to let out a groan, and Mona can envision him rubbing his hand over his face in exasperation. "They aren't going to be surprised."
"I hate her," Mona announces, staring at her mother's body. "I hate her. How dare she do this to me?"
"Mona," Devyn sighs. He doesn't sound sad, or devastated, or even shocked. He just sounds annoyed, like he always does when she calls him, crying, to complain about mom and her men, mom and her drugs, and mom and her bullshit mental illnesses.
She's been down the line with everything she could have complained about. Cassandra turning tricks in their apartment for drug money, having to hide out on the balcony in case any of the men get too bold and think they can have her, too. Cassandra calling her from the hospital or the local jail, demanding she call a laundry list of men who may come bail her out or pay her bills. Cassandra showing up at her eighth grade graduation drunk, Cassandra showing up at her first Homecoming dance high, Cassandra selling Mona's clothes to get drug money, Cassandra selling their TV, their couch, their beds for drug money. Cassandra hallucinating people to argue with in the middle of the night, Cassandra ranting and raving to parents of Mona's friends, Cassandra ruining her life.
But what now? What now?
"Where am I supposed to go?" Mona asks quietly. "I'm sixteen, Devyn, I can't live alone!"
"We'll figure it out," Devyn assures her. "Call the police, Mona. You can't stay in that apartment with a corpse."
"The corpse of our mother!" Mona shouts, suddenly angry at him for being so callous. "You're such an asshole, Devyn!"
"Call the police, Mona," Devyn repeats. "I'm on my way." He hangs up on her, and Mona is left starting at the body of her mother on the couch. The phone suddenly feels so heavy in her hand, and she lowers herself onto the floor just so she can catch her breath.
Rage bubbles up inside of her, briefly, but fades away before she can really do anything with it. She's tired suddenly, more exhausted than just the alcohol and pills could do alone, and she can hear sirens wailing on the street below. They grow louder and louder until they finally do the opposite, growing quieter as they turn and race elsewhere, and Mona looks down at her phone and wonders how she's going to manage to call 911.
Those same police arrested her mother time and time again. Those same police pounded on their door with warrants and flashlights and tired faces, carrying out the psychotic woman as she kicked and screamed and spat at them. Now, would they come in to shake their heads in pity? Would they muster some sympathy for her fucked-up daughter?
There is a small amount of comfort in the fact that Devyn is coming. He's just average enough, with his glasses and professor cardigans, his tired eyes and nervous energy. He'll be a buffer, she thinks, when the police come in expecting her to be a mini-me of her mother. They'll take one look at him, with his arm protectively around his sister's shoulders, and leave her alone. Maybe they'll think she's finally in good hands.
When she finally has the strength to get up, Mona flushes her drugs down the toilet. There's no reason to keep them if it means she could go to jail for it, and if she is on the streets after this, she has generous friends. She'll find more drugs. Cassandra's drugs, though, she leaves alone. There's no point; her mother never was a respectable person. She's been an addict for as long as she's known, and it's likely that every single officer who comes will have had a run-in with her at some point.
Mona stands in her mother's bedroom, next to the wooden box she keeps the heroin in, and finally dials 911. The operator is a woman, with a kind and clear voice, and Mona stares into the box as she tells the woman, "My mother is dead."