I'm Sorry I Brought You Into This
Just another day in the Miller household
The door slams just as my iPod spits out the last words of 'Betrayed' by Avenged Sevenfold. It's either my mom or my sister, I think to myself as I force my weary body to move me down stairs to see who it is. As I stagger down the upstairs hallway, I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror my parents were given at their wedding. I looked pissed off; for what reason I don't know. I always know when I'm irrationally angry because my yellow-green eyes become dilated. I suppose I'm just having a bipolar moment again.
If it's my sister who just walked in the door, I'll be lashing out verbally on her due to the fact that I know she was at her seventeen year-old boyfriend, Jonathan's house-even though she's a mere thirteen. If it's my mom coming through that door, she'll be snapping physically at me; she's always mad when she gets home from work. She's bipolar too, but she always finds another excuse for the beatings. Her alcoholism doesn't help either; she went to AA once after she had me, but she didn't find it helpful so she quit.
"Justin! I thought I told you to clean the damn kitchen!" her words weren't slurred together, but I knew she'd been binge drinking due to her rage over a fairly small chore.
"I'm sorry, Mom! I forgot!" as mad as I was, I always turned into a whimpering, cowering, defenseless child when she was in a rage.
"Don't lie to me!" she screamed while throwing a plate I forgot to pick up at me. It shattered against my arm that I had instinctively held up. I could feel the blood trickle from the wounds made by the shards of glass implanted in my arm.
"I...I'll do it right now if you want me too!"
“After I'm done with you!” my mother was in a full-fledged rage now.
She was in my face now, and then she slapped me so hard the room spun and I tasted pennies, felt blood rolling down my face. "You’re useless to me!" my mom repeatedly screamed along with a barrage of other insults. She punched me in the face and I hit the floor. I curled into fetal position awaiting the impending blows. I was kicked multiple times and then she kneeled down on the floor at pulled me up to her face by my collar. As my upper body was lifted into the air, I saw the pool of blood where my head had been laying.
"I hate you!" she screamed so loud I was sure the neighbors had heard. "If your father hadn't insisted on having kids, he'd be alive! And we'd be happy!"
With that, she left me to clean up the kitchen, including the brand new bloody mess that had appeared in the past three minutes.
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While cleaning the kitchen, I managed to slip a small knife into the sleeve of my jacket. I'm in my room now, and my jacket has been removed, revealing the abuse of myself and my mother. Bruises are erratically placed on the outside of my arms, and on the inside are cuts. Some deep, some small, some vertical, some horizontal, but making each cut gives the same, calming effect.
I decide today is a deep-cut-day, and I place the sharp point of the knife at my wrist, just beside the vain, for I don't yet have the courage to leave my sister alone in this world; I don't yet have the courage to end my life, but someday I will. At that last thought I lean my head back against the cool headboard, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and I press the knife down and slowly-ever so slowly-I pull it back, relishing the rush of opening my skin with a blade. I open my eyes once the deed is done. There is about a two-inch gash in my arm that I could easily say happened from falling while running if anyone sees. The truth is, nobody will see because nobody will ask; nobody cares to see.
Maybe someone will care one day, a small voice in the back of my head told me calmly, reassuringly, but he was immediately silenced by the voice of the present, reminding me nobody loves me now, I'm not worthy of love, and that everyone wishes I had the willpower to commit suicide.
The voice of reason is, to me, the voice of the present. So I put the knife in my drawer, put my jacket on without cleaning my arm up, and then I turn out the light and go to sleep. I sleep because in my dreams, sometimes, there's someone who cares, loves me, and who'll comfort me and never let me fall. That is, sometimes.
If it's my sister who just walked in the door, I'll be lashing out verbally on her due to the fact that I know she was at her seventeen year-old boyfriend, Jonathan's house-even though she's a mere thirteen. If it's my mom coming through that door, she'll be snapping physically at me; she's always mad when she gets home from work. She's bipolar too, but she always finds another excuse for the beatings. Her alcoholism doesn't help either; she went to AA once after she had me, but she didn't find it helpful so she quit.
"Justin! I thought I told you to clean the damn kitchen!" her words weren't slurred together, but I knew she'd been binge drinking due to her rage over a fairly small chore.
"I'm sorry, Mom! I forgot!" as mad as I was, I always turned into a whimpering, cowering, defenseless child when she was in a rage.
"Don't lie to me!" she screamed while throwing a plate I forgot to pick up at me. It shattered against my arm that I had instinctively held up. I could feel the blood trickle from the wounds made by the shards of glass implanted in my arm.
"I...I'll do it right now if you want me too!"
“After I'm done with you!” my mother was in a full-fledged rage now.
She was in my face now, and then she slapped me so hard the room spun and I tasted pennies, felt blood rolling down my face. "You’re useless to me!" my mom repeatedly screamed along with a barrage of other insults. She punched me in the face and I hit the floor. I curled into fetal position awaiting the impending blows. I was kicked multiple times and then she kneeled down on the floor at pulled me up to her face by my collar. As my upper body was lifted into the air, I saw the pool of blood where my head had been laying.
"I hate you!" she screamed so loud I was sure the neighbors had heard. "If your father hadn't insisted on having kids, he'd be alive! And we'd be happy!"
With that, she left me to clean up the kitchen, including the brand new bloody mess that had appeared in the past three minutes.
------------------------------------------------------
While cleaning the kitchen, I managed to slip a small knife into the sleeve of my jacket. I'm in my room now, and my jacket has been removed, revealing the abuse of myself and my mother. Bruises are erratically placed on the outside of my arms, and on the inside are cuts. Some deep, some small, some vertical, some horizontal, but making each cut gives the same, calming effect.
I decide today is a deep-cut-day, and I place the sharp point of the knife at my wrist, just beside the vain, for I don't yet have the courage to leave my sister alone in this world; I don't yet have the courage to end my life, but someday I will. At that last thought I lean my head back against the cool headboard, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and I press the knife down and slowly-ever so slowly-I pull it back, relishing the rush of opening my skin with a blade. I open my eyes once the deed is done. There is about a two-inch gash in my arm that I could easily say happened from falling while running if anyone sees. The truth is, nobody will see because nobody will ask; nobody cares to see.
Maybe someone will care one day, a small voice in the back of my head told me calmly, reassuringly, but he was immediately silenced by the voice of the present, reminding me nobody loves me now, I'm not worthy of love, and that everyone wishes I had the willpower to commit suicide.
The voice of reason is, to me, the voice of the present. So I put the knife in my drawer, put my jacket on without cleaning my arm up, and then I turn out the light and go to sleep. I sleep because in my dreams, sometimes, there's someone who cares, loves me, and who'll comfort me and never let me fall. That is, sometimes.
♠ ♠ ♠
If I get atleast two subscribers and two positive comments, I'll add more.