The call ended again — and still no answer. Not even a text. How annoying. Not once. Not twice. Five. Freaking. Times. And he didn't answer a single one of my calls.
I did my homework, tried to catch up on the lessons I've been ignoring. I wasn't falling behind… yet. So, I studied. And studied some more. I reread the same paragraph three times before it finally clicked.
To all my ADHD girlies out there wondering how I do it — I just do. Your first mistake was thinking you were gonna get good advice from me. Take your pills, sit your booty down — or stand, I don't care — and study.
I took off my glasses before going to bed and woke up ridiculously late. Probably because I went to sleep ridiculously late. No point in rushing when I'm already late. Today I'm feeling pigtails. I parted my hair and braided it before getting ready for school.
I missed my bus, made cereal, and called an Uber. Mom left a sticky note: therapy today. She could've just texted me.
I started going to therapy when I was twelve. I was so small then, and everything felt so… big. Back then I was either feeling everything or nothing, and twelve-year-old me had no clue how to handle that.
"Elizabeth, stop playing with Reggie and come so I can drive you to school!" my mom screamed.
I didn't want to go, so I just pretended I didn't hear her.
Twelve-year-old me did that a lot. I liked playing with Reggie — our golden retriever that Mom got so I wouldn't be alone. He was still a puppy.
"Elizabeth, I won't call you again." Mom came into my room, dragging me out. It wasn't forceful since I let myself get dragged.
"But I don't want to go to school!" I screamed — and still ended up in the car anyway.
"You're going to make me late for work," she muttered, checking her watch. Again, might I add.
"You only care about your stupid job," I muttered back.
My Uber was here. I locked the door behind me before leaving.
"Have a good day at school. Love you!" Mom said as I closed the door.
"Love you too, Mom."
"Love you too, Mom." An obnoxious voice imitating mine said. I didn't need to turn to know which little girl was speaking — one of the many annoying kids whose names I refused to learn.
She did that a lot. Echoed me. Back then I didn't mind.
School was always blurry anyway — probably because I was skipping so many of my classes. I never did anything when I skipped. I just didn't want to be in class.
I remember being excited to go home and play with Reggie. But Mom picked me up late.
"Why are you late?" I asked, slamming the door as I got in.
"I'm sorry, honey," she said. No reason. Just sorry. That only made me madder.
I didn't speak for the whole ride. Didn't answer her questions. Just ran out of the car when we got home.
I remember playing with Reggie in front of the house while Mom made lunch. Reggie ran, I chased. But he was too fast… and not looking. He darted into the road.
I watched it in slow motion — my dog, my puppy, getting hit.
Reggie's yelp tore through the air — sharp, high-pitched, and sudden. Then came a silence that hurt worse. A whimper escaped him as his small body twitched, and for a second, everything else went mute.
The next sound Reggie made wasn't a bark — it was a scream, raw and choked, like something dying and knowing it.
I had just learned how to braid his fur into little heart shapes.
The car stopped. A bald man stepped out with his daughter.
"Love you, Mom," I imagined her saying. How she made her voice high-pitched to mimic mine.
I didn't think. I just ran.
I jumped on her and started pulling.
And punching.
Stepping.
Biting.
Trying to hurt her the way he hurt me. Because someone had to feel it. If Reggie was dead, someone had to bleed for it.
I got yanked off of her.
I could hear the girl crying. Screaming. I didn't care that I had broken her nose and ripped out a fistful of her hair. Broke two of her ribs and hospitalized her.
I didn't care 'cause Reggie was gone.
In the blur, I saw Mom running out of the house and screaming. I didn't know if she was screaming at me or the man.
There was the sound of an ambulance.
But Reggie was already gone.
My mom buried him alone. And we never spoke about him again, 'cause Mom didn't want to "trigger me."
I was sent to a psych ward. Then therapy. I remember feeling… nothing. Not even relief. Just silence.
"We're here, miss," the Uber driver said.
"Thank you," I replied, shaking the memory away. Leaving it where it belongs — in the past.