Metaphorical Labyrinth

Chapter 11

Cat Sullivan

by: Apathy_
“I'm going back to my normal school,” Cat said obstinately. She was lying on her back on the bed in her room. Her parents were standing at the foot of her bed.
“But... Sweetie... Are you sure?” asked her mother, biting her lip nervously.
“Mother. I am going back. Nothing you say can convince me otherwise. Do you understand?”
She spoke slowly, as if her mother had a problem with her brain. Bristling, her father stepped forward.
“Don't you speak to your mother that way!” he thundered.
“Why?” Cat asked loudly. “Why can't I talk to her like that?”
“It's disrespectful!” he bellowed. Cat sat bolt upright in the bed.
“Disrespectful?” she whispered, her voice dangerously soft. “Disrespectful? Don't you think,” and here her voice dropped to an even quieter tone, “Don't you think I've been through enough to earn the privilege to be 'disrespectful'? Don't you think,” and now her voice started to rise considerably, “That maybe I have a reason to be disrespectful? Maybe I have certain things going on in my life, like; oh, I don't know, being blind and pregnant!; that give me permission to be 'disrespectful' sometimes?” She was shouting now, her voice ringing through the room and out the open window.
Her mother cowered back into the doorframe.
“I'm sorry, honey-bunch,” she whispered.
“Don't call me that.” Cat's voice was quiet again, dropped down so far that her mother could barely hear her.
“I'm going back to my old school. I am going to sit with my friends in class. I am going to do my work, and I am going to do my Junior Cert next year. I am going to get a boyfriend and go to the Debs. I am going to get this stupid child inside of me adopted the minute I am allowed to. I am going to act like this entire summer never happened. And I am going back to that school.”
“Alright, sweetie-pie,” her mother whispered.”
“Don’t call me that, either,” Cat snapped. She had no patience for her mother’s pet names, they made her sick to her stomach. Even more so than that dress her grandmother had once bought her, by some nobody designer who lived in Bulgaria, for frick sake.
“I have unfinished business to attend to at that school,” she said, so quietly that neither her father nor her mother heard her.

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