Ruth couldn't take it anymore.

She tried to fight the urge of her eager fingers that constantly reached for her writing notebook and her pen; she really did. She even shoved her science book over the top as her last attempt at a 'out of sight, out of mind' kind of deal, but it did nothing. The urge to write was still there, and there was nothing she could do but give into her own addiction.

Ruth was quick in snatching her notebook back to the front of her body at the kitchen table. Terry and Jana were asleep to get ready for their Tuesday workday, and she was currently trying to finish up her science homework before Thursday, but her mind was side-tracked with that familiar urge to write. How could she call herself a writer when she was never writing?

So with that thought in mind, she used her determination to begin the first part of whatever story presented itself first at the forefront of her mind. She imagined intertwining redwood trees and fireflies that glow softly underneath the midnight sky like sparkling fairy lights. Scribbled along blue lines on recycled paper was a princess who wanted to run far from the life forced upon her. Suffocated with the duties of her parents, she tried to-

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ruth furrowed her eyebrows mid-sentence as she lifted her phone from the table and squinted at the screen. She stifled a groan at the name blinking up at her and before she could refuse it, she pressed the answer button.

"Mom, do you know what time it is?" Ruth huffed into the phone.

Her urge to write was gone and was now replaced by complete and utter guilt. Shanelle had a way of doing that to people.

"It's only 8:45."

"It's 10:45 here."

"I don't give a fuck what time it is," she snapped. "First of all, watch that tone. And second, I'm your damn mother, Ruth. You better make time for me."

Her crossed words dig deeper into Ruth's growing guilt. She could just imagine her mother on the other line with her hair wrapped in a silk bonnet with her hundred dollar robe tugged tightly around her slender body. From the soft snores in the background, Ruth knew her father was sound asleep in the bed beside Shantelle and, therefore, could not save her.

"How's school going?" Shantelle asked, cutting right to the chase. No bullshit.

"It's going fine," Ruth admitted, smoothly. But there was only one right answer for Shantelle when she asked a question like that.

"Fine? Just fine? What the hell does that mean?"

"Mom, school is going great. I'm doing well in my classes so far, even though it's only week two."

"Don't give me that tone," her mother warned tightly. "I don't want you messing up any more of your grades. It's bad enough that you have to climb your GPA back up-"

"I'm doing the best that I can to make up for it. You reminding me every day that I'm a failure doesn't help."

"Well, I'm glad we're on the same page then."

Ruth winced at the weight of her words, and she pressed her forehead into her hand. Exhaustion poured from her now like a mist over the hunching of her shoulders as she closed her notebook and tried her best not to cry. Her mother hated crying, and the last thing she wanted to hear was how pointless it was to cry whenever she was wrong, just to make those around her feel bad for her. If that wasn't further from the truth, then she didn't know what was.

Ruth's not some selfish monster without a heart. She worked hard, studied harder, and tried to be the best daughter she knows she can be for her parents. She had always wondered why that can never be enough for her.

"I'll talk to you soon. I don't want to wake your father," Shantelle quipped, wasting no time in hanging up the phone.

Time for bed, Ruth thought to herself with a heavy sigh. She climbed off her chair, put up her laptop, and tucked herself into bed, trying and failing to stop the tears from trickling out the corners of her eyes. 

*****