So, this is chapter one of a story I decided to start at ... 1:30 AM. I know it isn't very good, I really wanna improve though. My punctuation is a mess, I use too many comma's... so please, constructive criticism is appreciated, but don't be mean. Thanks.
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I slowly watched insanity kill my mother, the gleam in her eye disappear until there was nothing left. I swear I can still feel her sometimes, her cold lips brushing against my forehead before drifting off to sleep each night. Her skin was always cold, but no matter how cold they were—in a way they made me feel warm, safe. I remember when she would smile, the sun catching her eyes in a way the light reflected off of them making her green hues much more intense than normal. I miss waking up to her voice, pulling me out of my bed.
It was perfect, everything was perfect—we, my family, were perfect. Perfection is a temporary state you can force your mind into, convincing yourself that nothing in this world interferes with your state of ecstasy. But perfection can’t last, nothing lasts. She stopped kissing me goodnight, she stopped smiling, and she slept too much to remember to wake me up in the morning. Then the day came, my father said she was going somewhere… she was sick, but despite only being twelve I knew she wasn’t sick.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. She was coming home, two weeks away from her recovery… but the thing about depression is recovery is only temporary, much like perfection. You tell yourself you’re happy, that everything is just fine—but is it? No, because nothing is ever fine. In this world, things can never be that way. She ended her life, selfishly she took herself away from me, even when she promised she’d be back…
People lie.
Shortly after her death, I watched alcohol consume my father… tear him to pieces while he brought me down with him. Everyone mourns in their own way, trying to push aside the painful memories of their loved one, even when they know it’s impossible. My father lived, and still lives in guilt. He blames himself for sending her away, making her hate her life… But this was no one’s fault. Things just happen, people… they just happen.
The stress was beginning to kill my father, in the same way my mother had been taken from me. It was slow, a gradual progression towards the bottle. And with one swig of the rich vodka sliding down his throat, he was hooked—and he mind was numb. From the first time he hit me, it never stopped. It was an outlet for him, just like perfection was to my family and depression was to my mother—it helped him get away from the guilt, he could convince himself every time he hurt me that it was really my fault. That I was the one responsible for this, and in some way—that made him feel better about himself.
They said children become like their parents, the statement has been proven true and false in many different situations, but for some reason I felt like this was coming true for me… I was becoming my father. My anger was becoming harder to control, and just like him… with one sip of the deadliest poison, I was hooked.
I tried to fight it, tried to stop this… but I’m becoming a monster.
