The Mimic

The Mimic

It is midafternoon and you are home from the last soccer game of the season. You are covered in mud and twigs and you are showered in defeat because your team lost the championship this afternoon against your rival team, The Saints. You are angry with yourself for missing the last goal that could have changed the outcome of the game and you wonder for the millionth time why you chose to be part of the shittiest soccer team in all of Boston.

You walk straight past the kitchen where you see your mother’s back facing the doorway of the kitchen. She is chopping celery for the stew dinner you’ll be having later. You hate celery and you hate stew. It’s just your lucky day.

She must have heard you because she calls out, “Abby! Sorry, I couldn’t make the game today. I had a meeting. How was the game today?”

You grunt an unintelligible answer, which is probably a good thing because if it were intelligible, your mother may have thrown something at you because your answer is most likely naughty words you’ve picked up since you started going to Roger Skillings High School, notorious for prepubescent-looking teens who run their mouths like dirty tractors in muddy sea waters.

You stomp your way up to your room, toss your backpack in a corner, kick your cleats off and crash on your bed. All you want to do is sleep and hope that when you wake up the next morning the pervious day would be a nightmare that you would try your best not to make reality.

 An hour later, you are half asleep when you hear your mother call.

"Abby! Time for dinner, hun."

You grunt and turn over in your bed, bringing your knees up to your chest. You don't answer.

"Abby!"

You yell, "I'll eat later, Mom! I'm not hungry!"

Your mother doesn't answer immediately so you take it that she gets you are in the mood to grieve your loss and will leave you alone for the remainder of the day.

Ten minutes later she calls again.

“Abby! Abigail!” Your mom is calling for you again and you can hear the twinge of annoyance in her tone and a twinge of something else that you cannot decipher. Anger? Urgency? Excitement?

Feeling the strong urge to scream your frustrations at not being able to mope after your pitiful loss, you get off your bed, jam your feet into a pair of beat-up moccasins that your mother keeps telling you to throw away, but you refuse because they are just way too comfortable and throw open the door to your room. You march loudly so your mother can hear every step that she is forcing you to make just so she can bother you some more downstairs. You reach the landing and are about to take a step down when a hand reaches out and grabs your hoodie and pulls you in. You are taken aback and attempt to scream when a hand covers your mouth tightly. You are kicking and punching furiously to get away from the unexpected stranger who pulls you into the bathroom, locks the door and finally releases you. You fall against the tub and turn to fight your perpetrator and instead find yourself face to face with your mother.

“Mom?” You are confused now. Hadn’t she been calling you downstairs?

Your mother is pale and appears shook. She is shaking. “I heard that too,” she whispers.

“What—?”

“Catherine!”

Color drains from your face. The mother clutching your hands hadn’t called you. The mother downstairs did.

TO BE CONTINUED
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Hi guys! I've decided to do something a little different and post up half a short story that I wrote a few weeks ago. Just to let all of you know, I was free-writing when I wrote this, so it is far from perfect, but I really wanted you guys to read what I have so far and maybe in the future I'll put up a full, better edited version of it. I'd love to know what you guys think of it so comment and if you want me to post more of my short stories, follow and subscribe!

Interested in tattoos? Make sure to read the previous post. Anna goes in depth about the art and nature of tattoos.

Thanks for reading!