The picture frame leaving the tips of my fingers did nothing to ease my aggravation. I was upset. Of course I was upset. She placed me into my little brother's bedroom, a small room capable of only holding his twin size bed and a dresser. Meanwhile, he was placed into my much bigger bedroom.
It was beyond unfair. There was no logical reasoning to this, besides to degrade me. How could she possibly deny her hatred for me now? She treated us differently. I was the leper.
My belongings were placed into black trash bags, which lined the hallway, cluttered off to one side. My blood boiled with frustration and anger. Nothing I did was ever going to be good enough. She would continue to degrade me in every possible way. She enjoyed hurting me.
Suddenly the ringing of the phone pierced the silence and my rage. Picking up the phone, I heard the voice of my mother.
"I called the police. You stay right there and stop destroying things. They are on their way right now. Andy called me because he was afraid. He heard you throwing things around upstairs..."
I stopped comprehending her words as anger and frustration surged through me. She continued to lecture me for a brief minute or two more, while I forced out a formidable politeness through the mouthpiece.
Hanging up the phone afterwards, I cursed myself for flinging the picture from it's spot against the wall. I cursed my mother for her hatred towards me and my brother for so naively following her every footstep.
Everything I did was wrong. It didn't matter how hard I tried, or how much right I did, she would always find some way to be angry with me. I don't know how to handle her anger properly.
I went to sit down on the steps, awaiting the police's arrival. I was afraid. But I was too tired to run. Where would I go anyways? I've dealt with the police before. Once she kicked me out of the house, and then called the police describing me as a teenager with a lousy attitude who ran away from home. The next morning when I came back home, an officer was there. He cornered me into the wall and yelled at me.
"Do you know what's out on those streets at night?"
He looked at me in disgust, not realizing that I was kicked out of my home. She had told me to leave. I hated cops afterwards.
So many people listened to her. She told everyone that would listen of how horrible of a daughter I was.
"She is on drugs," she would tell them. I've never done any drug then.
"She is having sex with all these boys," she would claim. I had one steady boyfriend. One that she hated because he was black.
"She curses at me and says the most horrible things," she would say. Meanwhile, all she ever did was degrade me, even while I sat there quiet, in tears, not muttering a word.
Everyone believed her. A friend of hers once looked at me and asked me if I was still giving my mother a hard time. As if.
Nothing I did mattered.
Soon the police arrived. They knocked at the door and I answered, feeling beat down and suddenly tired. Now I had to deal with their arrogance and their ignorance of what really was going on.
There were two guys. One black and one white. This mattered to me, because surely you can't be racist against your own partner right? I've dealt with too much racism. Being the girlfriend of a black guy in an all white neighbor didn't go well. That's what caused this entire fight to begin with. She called my boyfriend a rather derogatory name, when I came home crying because someone from school done the same. I sat back down on the steps after letting them in.
The one guy got onto his one knee to look at me eye level. "What happened?" he asked softly.
His softness catches me off guard. I was prepared to be defiant, to answer swiftly and curtly.
"I was angry," I told him. "So I knocked a picture frame down the hall."
He asked me a few more questions about how I knocked it down. Was it hung up? Did I throw it?
I told him it was leaning against the wall, when I just hit it with the palm of my hand.
"Why were you angry?" he asked.
I told him it was because my mother switched our bedrooms. He frowns and looks at his partner. "That doesn't make sense," he said."Is there something wrong with the bedroom?"
I told him no. That it was the smaller one.
After a few more question he started speaking of a visit he had recently with another young girl. A young girl whose mother 'stepped' on her toes. He asked if my mother does this sometimes. I nodded. Then he continued to tell me how some mothers and daughters just bash heads. That mothers can step on the daughter's toes from time to time. That sometimes they don't give them enough space and such.
He spoke softly a bit more. It wasn't a lecture like I usually recieved. Just advice, telling me to try to get along with her, and to step back when toes are being stepped on. His voice was calming.
He didn't get it. Of course. This was more then just toes being treaded on. This was something more vindictive.
But he wasn't rude or arrogant, or pointing the blame at me straightaway. He listened. He asked questions. He was trying to understand.
He left soon after, with his partner. I was less angry. I was less bitter towards police officers too. Maybe they are not all jerks.
Maybe, one day, there will be one who understands.