The alarm wasn't supposed to go off yet. Hell, the only reason I set it was because my therapist thought staying in a routine would help. I shouldn't be waking up right now. 


Why didn't it work?


I can taste the vomit in my mouth. I'm trying to force it back down, but my body is folding in on itself, the muscles of my stomach and throat contracting to bring everything up against my will.


I'll lay on my back. That should help. 


I'm trying, but can't seem to find the strength to roll over that much. Everything's blurry, and I can't see well enough to find something to grab so I can try pulling myself into another position.


Shit. I grabbed something I thought was solid and just pulled my lamp off my nightstand. Now I can't see anything. 


It spews from my mouth onto the clean sheets I put on the bed last night. Guess they won't be smelling like lavender Gain much longer. I hear it splatter onto the hardwood floor as it tumbles over the side of my twin mattress. 


Great. I'm laying in a mess that I wasn't supposed to have to worry about cleaning up. A pungent, slimy rainbow continues to erupt from my mouth, this time hitting the nightstand too. My guts are quivering with the effort of this purge. The rest of me is shaking as well, but I can't be sure whether that's a result of being physically sick or an effect from one of the handfuls of pills I took. 


My head's starting to pound. Maybe if I just start breathing in when the next bunch comes up, that'll do the trick. 


My stomach's getting close to empty, so the small, foamy puddle that reaches the top of my throat doesn't do much when I try to inhale it. I fight to suppress the urge, but I start coughing and my airways clear. 


Fuck. This isn't going the way it was supposed to at all. I made sure to research everything carefully in advance; nothing that listed nausea as a side effect, one made for sleeping and another that was known to cause drowsiness, and all three drugs weren't meant to be taken together.


I'm not going to see you again until life has wrung every last drop of pain it can from me. 


I thought I knew how badly a person could hurt, but I was more wrong than I could ever have believed. My existence was a steaming pile of shit before she entered it; just another underweight baby whose parents sold me for the same drugs to which I was born addicted. Just another teenage drop-out who got pregnant too soon with a child I didn't agree to conceive. My seedling, planted by my adoptive mother's new husband after the man I called “Dad” died when I was fourteen. 


My step dad insisted I had made the first move even though the rape kit suggested otherwise. My mother believed him and kicked me out. 


It was just you and me after that, Stella. It was rough making things work, especially as a single mom working two jobs, but we got by and all our basic needs were met. 


I never knew how much love a human heart could hold until the day a nurse named Megan put you in my arms. I learned how many pieces it could be ripped into when a man named Conrad ran a stop sign while you were crossing the street.


Funny how something as simple as going to school can be deadly.


All I wanted was to end this shit-show and be with you. Apparently, I couldn't even do that right. 


I didn't think I had any more tears left in me, but I can feel them running over the bridge of my nose and across my left eye while gravity drags them down to the damp spot that's forming just above my left cheek. 


It's okay, I'll just think of another way. As soon as I can move, I'll go up to the roof of my  broken-down apartment building and jump off. I'll have to make it a running leap so I don't catch on the fire escape.


“Mommy?”


What the fuck? It's gotta be the pills making me hallucinate. As badly as I want to believe you're with me and that the last six weeks have been nothing but a hellish nightmare, I know I can't actually be hearing you right now. 


Now I'm seeing you, too, in perfect clarity. Three and a half feet of smiles, sunshine and impromptu dance parties is looking straight at me, but you aren't smiling right now. You still have the bright blue ribbon I put in your jet black hair that morning, the same bright blue as your eyes, but your trademark mischievous grin is nowhere to be found. 


“Mommy, why did you hurt yourself?”


The question pierces and stings and throbs. The only person whose opinion about this would matter to me has tears forming and a quiver in her voice. The steady stream flowing from me before becomes a river and my voice has a ragged, raspy quality that isn't normally there when I try to reply to you. 


“Everything hurts without you. Mommy just wanted us to be together again.”


I don't know how my body still has the strength to shake like this as I sob. My mind knows you can't really be there, but I reach for you all the same. Your footsteps shouldn't be making this gentle patting noise, but they are anyway as you walk over to me, putting your small, clumsy fingers between mine and closing them tightly around my palm. Why is warmth coming from those fingers? Your hand was so cold and stiff the last time I held it. 


You grab a tissue from the box on my nightstand with your other hand and begin wiping the sick from my mouth, chin and cheeks. Your doll-like lips place a loving kiss on my forehead, and I must be tripping pretty hard because when I raise my other hand to touch that little face that's so much like my own (covering my arm and shoulder in puke by so doing), I can feel your soft cheeks, the wetness rolling down it. I quickly brush it away with my thumb; I never could bear to see you cry. 


You frown, an almost disgusted look on your face. 


“What's the matter, baby?”


Your button nose crinkles as you answer, “Your forehead's all sweaty.”


I can't help laughing; leave it to a kid to follow a sweet act of love with a not-so-sweet observation. It's the first time I've laughed since the morning you were taken from me, and it sounds almost alien coming from the empty husk I've become. It's good enough for you, though, because that beautiful smile I loved so much is starting to tug at the corners of your mouth. 


“I can't stay long,” you warn, then ask me, “so can I cuddle with you?”


I know I shouldn't be feeding into what is clearly a delusion, but am past the point of caring. Real or not, my angel is here, and if she wants to cuddle then by God, that's exactly what we're gonna do. 


“You can always cuddle with me, sweet-pea.”


I gesture to the other side of the bed, the part that isn't soiled, and tell you, “Over here, so you don't get any of that yuck on your pretty dress.” You begged me to buy that for months, and as soon as I could afford the $40 the store wanted for it, that buttercup-yellow atrocity with the sequined, poofy skirt and ruffled sleeves was yours. I secretly always hated that dress, but hate the idea of it being ruined by filth of my making even more. 


I can't explain it, but I don't feel sick at all anymore. I definitely should; even after throwing a lot of the pills up, there should be at least some lingering effects. I roll over to face you as you clamber up onto my bed, twisting your arms around my chest and resting your head just above my collarbone. My own arms wrap around you instinctively; maybe if I hold on tight enough, you'll never be able to leave and I can just lay here like this until I die. 


Several minutes pass in blissful silence, the gaping hole in my heart filled with your presence, however temporary or imagined. I don't want this to ever stop, but I know it will and I'll be left with that horrible, ravenous emptiness once more. 


For now, though, I'm not just content, but complete again. 


Dawn is slowly breaking, streaks of orange, rose and gold slowly pouring in through my window. Proof that time is passing no matter how desperately I want to stay frozen in this moment. 


“I love you, Mama.”


My favorite words in the English language, coming from the voice of my very favorite person. They're bittersweet right now, because part of me already knows what will follow. 


“I love you too, Stel. Forever and always, to the moon and back.”


Your arms aren’t around me anymore, and there's only cold air where you were laying just a second ago. Please don't leave me. Tell me what I have to do to make you stay. You were the only good thing that ever happened to me and I can't lose you again.


“I gotta go now.” You're in front of me, moving away, and I can't hold my sorrow back. I'm sobbing again, I want to beg you to stay, but before I can, you utter one quiet request.


“Please don't hurt yourself anymore, okay?”


Just like that, you're gone and I'm back to being stuck in a world that doesn't have your joy, your mischief, or your laughter in it. No more making up silly songs that made our shitty circumstances more bearable. No more midnight snuggles when a nightmare would wake you up. Back to laying in bed looking at pictures of you instead of watching movies on the palette we'd make together and binging on snacks every Friday night.


The alarm goes off again, but this time the numbers on the clock face are correct and it's actually 7:30.


I don't want this. I don't belong here without you. 


I prop myself up with my forearms with every intention of going to the rooftop when I see something on the pillow beside me that stops me in my tracks. 


The card you made me your first week of kindergarten, laying on top of the blue ribbon you were wearing when you left for school for the last time. 


A horribly unflattering stick figure version of me, complete with runny nose and bags under my eyes, drawn in green crayon was laying on a green rectangle that was supposed to be a bed. A smaller, red stick figure, which you said was you, was bringing me a bowl of what was labeled as “soop.”  Beneath all that was a multicolored “feel better, Mommy” scrawled in chunky, squiggly letters that had instantly brightened my mood when you brought it home. 


An echo of the words I heard just one short moment ago, accompanied by the vision of your face, unsmiling and broken-hearted at the sight of me in my misery, subdue my desire to end my life. I want nothing more than to say goodbye to this shithole and everyone in it with a sky-high swan dive, but I know it'll bring that look back to your face, even if I can't see it.


“Please don't hurt yourself anymore, okay?”


I can't make any promises, and have no idea how I'll manage to wait for nature to decide it's my time to go. I have no clue how I'll find the strength to keep moving, taking step after step away from the point in my life that had you at its center. 


I don't know how I'll do it, but I'll try, baby. I'll try.