Over the Lines and Oceans
By: RDV
On a typical day, her mother’s phone calls always gave her the tantrum she never, ever needed. As far as she could tell, the voice rang malicious and scornful and blew her stack each time it penetrated her ears. She wondered why, when all it ever uttered were things within the realm of the ordinary. Abigail wasn’t sure if it was the raspy texture of her mom’s voice or the very urgency in her tone that annoyed her. Perhaps both, as she never liked huskiness and never adored being ordered around like a dog in a tether. But whatever it was, when it came down to the particulars, her mother irked her. Yes, she had enough of it to last her another eternity. Speaking of which, she had enough of running back and forth to the grocery picking up bare necessities, hygiene-related products of the cheapest brand and even extra meals for every afternoon. Economizing everything was also a burden, a mental burden.
She had always been tired, I'd grant you, day in, day out, no fail you bet. That was her, to a tee.
On the surface of her bedroom mirror was plastered a sheet of paper, on which were scribbled down the timeslots of the shows she had since then been loyal to. Lately, she’d been finding it difficult to attend to them. All because of the chores! Thanks.
The maid, in other news, had been given the axe. Or should we say the maid took the initiative to withdraw. Either way, nothing arrived as a help. The timing, good or otherwise, was ignored. Between you and me there was just too much work to be done, she said as she stomped her way out, her last words sounding bittersweet, her steps eager to be gone. To what did she owe the toil anyway? To that average pay not even enough to cover her personal expenses? True, it was not her headache to take care of everything there, filthy laundry, ironing, piled-up dishes, cooking and even borrowing kitchen utensils absent in the house. Even defrosting the stupid ref! All of it was hardly part of the deal. So when she announced her resignation a day or two prior, it was with pleasure.
All was nice as you please but I’m outta here. Right.
The state of things had then begun calling for reconciliation between the continents-away mother and the well-on-her-own daughter. The edges were sharpened; things were made clear; the probation order had been pronounced. Her embarrassment was scarlet, her mother always harping it on her, implying things as such but never expressly said anything. She had a way to her, a way to insult, a way to hit it home and make the sour aftertaste linger. How could she? In her point of view, Abigail could’ve taken residence someplace unknown to her relatives if not for her younger sister who was still straggling in high school, vulnerable, painstakingly dependent, thriving in parental captivity, by and large. Unlike her. Blood is thicker than water. Still.
Gosh. Too much work. Too limited locomotion. She could no longer manipulate things around the house single-handedly as she did before. Her college was barely over and she was what? Going on twenty-three? Everything was guaranteed by nothing but hope, far-flown and fanciful. With work and few subjects in hand, there was only so enough time to earn her degree. And there was scarcely time to take care of the household, which was now crumbling in dilapidation. Well she could give up the job, provided she’d take her mom’s income, which her ornery pride would never allow so long as the earth lasts. The thought of being yet again indebted in any regard to her mother lay thick on her, and she dreaded it with shame and anger. Hence, she wouldn’t permit losing the job, which incidentally was not related to the soon-to-be procured degree she was aiming for. Underemployed. That’s what she was. And the weight of it was strapped on her back, along with many worries she dared not build in the open.
God knows she tried. She did what she could out of the leeway awarded to her.
She was trying still. And die trying. Getting killed in the effort, it was just the kind of thing she would do.
Self-support, it was about that to begin with, right? It’s all or nothing. Ah, she’d take it, all of it, fuck it.
In her toil, the intent crystallized, growing inside her as though to fix itself for an atomic explosion.
On a typical day, her mother’s phone calls always gave her the tantrum she never, ever needed. As far as she could tell, the voice rang malicious and scornful and blew her stack each time it penetrated her ears. She wondered why, when all it ever uttered were things within the realm of the ordinary. Abigail wasn’t sure if it was the raspy texture of her mom’s voice or the very urgency in her tone that annoyed her. Perhaps both, as she never liked huskiness and never adored being ordered around like a dog in a tether. But whatever it was, when it came down to the particulars, her mother irked her. Yes, she had enough of it to last her another eternity. Speaking of which, she had enough of running back and forth to the grocery picking up bare necessities, hygiene-related products of the cheapest brand and even extra meals for every afternoon. Economizing everything was also a burden, a mental burden.
She had always been tired, I'd grant you, day in, day out, no fail you bet. That was her, to a tee.
On the surface of her bedroom mirror was plastered a sheet of paper, on which were scribbled down the timeslots of the shows she had since then been loyal to. Lately, she’d been finding it difficult to attend to them. All because of the chores! Thanks.
The maid, in other news, had been given the axe. Or should we say the maid took the initiative to withdraw. Either way, nothing arrived as a help. The timing, good or otherwise, was ignored. Between you and me there was just too much work to be done, she said as she stomped her way out, her last words sounding bittersweet, her steps eager to be gone. To what did she owe the toil anyway? To that average pay not even enough to cover her personal expenses? True, it was not her headache to take care of everything there, filthy laundry, ironing, piled-up dishes, cooking and even borrowing kitchen utensils absent in the house. Even defrosting the stupid ref! All of it was hardly part of the deal. So when she announced her resignation a day or two prior, it was with pleasure.
All was nice as you please but I’m outta here. Right.
The state of things had then begun calling for reconciliation between the continents-away mother and the well-on-her-own daughter. The edges were sharpened; things were made clear; the probation order had been pronounced. Her embarrassment was scarlet, her mother always harping it on her, implying things as such but never expressly said anything. She had a way to her, a way to insult, a way to hit it home and make the sour aftertaste linger. How could she? In her point of view, Abigail could’ve taken residence someplace unknown to her relatives if not for her younger sister who was still straggling in high school, vulnerable, painstakingly dependent, thriving in parental captivity, by and large. Unlike her. Blood is thicker than water. Still.
Gosh. Too much work. Too limited locomotion. She could no longer manipulate things around the house single-handedly as she did before. Her college was barely over and she was what? Going on twenty-three? Everything was guaranteed by nothing but hope, far-flown and fanciful. With work and few subjects in hand, there was only so enough time to earn her degree. And there was scarcely time to take care of the household, which was now crumbling in dilapidation. Well she could give up the job, provided she’d take her mom’s income, which her ornery pride would never allow so long as the earth lasts. The thought of being yet again indebted in any regard to her mother lay thick on her, and she dreaded it with shame and anger. Hence, she wouldn’t permit losing the job, which incidentally was not related to the soon-to-be procured degree she was aiming for. Underemployed. That’s what she was. And the weight of it was strapped on her back, along with many worries she dared not build in the open.
God knows she tried. She did what she could out of the leeway awarded to her.
She was trying still. And die trying. Getting killed in the effort, it was just the kind of thing she would do.
Self-support, it was about that to begin with, right? It’s all or nothing. Ah, she’d take it, all of it, fuck it.
In her toil, the intent crystallized, growing inside her as though to fix itself for an atomic explosion.
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10:40 PM
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