Forgotten

Hannah Langley, 18
California

As I open the door, I hear the familiar screams. Home sweet home, I think, rolling my eyes. I stomp into the center of the living room and see my mother rocking the little crying demon. My stepfather smiles down at the creature. Neither of them looks up. I wonder if they're even aware of my presence.

I wander into the kitchen, grab a plate out of the sink, and drop it onto the cold tile floor. It explodes with a thunderous clap. The idol worshippers don’t even turn to look. They're too worried about their pink pagan god’s displeasure to notice. Just as I suspected, they don’t even know I’m here. I run up the stairs, throw open my bedroom door, and crawl under my bed to hide.

I look up at the underside of my mattress, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Between the rusty metal cross bars supporting the canvas-covered springs above me sways a thin veil. A spider’s limp web droops inches above me. It's long abandoned. The knotted white-transparent cords hang in a haphazard mass, like unkempt hair.

I reach up and touch a sticky cord. A bit unwinds with my touch. It seems so fragile in this state. I blow softly on the wispy web so as not to break its weak grip on my finger. I stop, feeling remorse for disturbing the roots of something so frail. I know what it's like to have to struggle, to fight, futilely, to hold onto a foundation.

My mother and I lived alone_ just her and me, ever since I could remember. I was her life, she used to say. We were two single gals, best friends, each other’s one and only. And that’s how we were going to be forever. Until Rich.

My mother met him a year ago. Long story short, after a month of dating they were married. I dealt with it, although I didn’t like it. My mother still spent time with me. That’s what mattered. Rich was cordial. I thought I would survive. But then the “joyous gift from God,” as they call him, was set to arrive. From the moment my mom peed on that little stick, I was pushed aside to make room for the tiny thing growing inside my mother’s womb.

My eyes dart from the fragment on my finger back to the remnants of the web. I wonder why the spider abandoned her home: not only her home, but her majestic creation. I gaze at the many long-dead insect carcasses embalmed in the web’s tangles_ proof of its former grandeur. The spider must have been proud of her work.

I slide my arm across the rough Berber to find a more comfortable position. I feel something under my fingers. I lift the small scrap of paper to my eyes, and squint to read it. It’s my report card. I must have thrown it under here. All A’s. I showed it to Mom last week, but she was too busy feeding the spawn to really look at it.

I observe how the web spans the great distance from one corner of my bed to another, the remains of a great silk trapeze. A once-perfectly effective trap to bring a spider all that she could ever expect from a web. I've done all that Mom has ever asked of me. The spider must have loved this web. She must have taken pride in caring for her spectacular creation. Mom was proud of me, or so she said. This fine product of diligent work provided the spider food and a functional home. I always try my best. So I can't help but wonder why the spider would ignore its wondrous invention, leaving it to quiver, alone, under an old mattress and a rusty bed frame. Why would Mom just forget about me? A maddening sound from downstairs seeps through my bedroom floor. Mom is cooing again softly to my new half-brother.

Then it strikes me. Now I know why the spider left her web and why my mother has discarded me. It only takes a spider an hour to weave her web, an insignificant hour. It didn’t take long for my mother to make a new family either. With so little time spent on a project, once the object of interest gets too old the creator can move on … move on to create a new, even better life than was had before.

The saggy lonely thing, its once-glistening strings now obscured by bits of dust and lint trembles as I release a shaky breath. I crush my report card into a damp wad and toss it aside. I brush a dusty strand of hair out of my eyes as I look back up at my new friend and taste a salty tear. We share the same fate, the web and I. We are forgotten.