Midnight

Mr. Cobain, as I called him, was moderately wealthy. Therefore, my mother had chosen to quit her job, giving my her a lot of extra time on her hands. She spent almost all of this time drinking, smoking, doing drugs, ect. My step-father wasn't a drug user, nor was he an alcoholic , but he had accepted the fact that my mother was, and he did everything he could to supply her with anything that she could have ever needed because this was his way of showing his love for her. Pretty messed up, right? I was convinced that this was the only reason my mother had married this man. Of course, I'm sure she also loved him at some point, but she never truly showed it after the second month of marriage.

The third and fourth months of this legal joining is when my mother had unequivocally hit rock bottom. It almost seemed like she was trying to kill herself. She doubtlessly OD-ed at least three times a week. Being the eight year-old child I was, I had been able to learn the rituals of the overdose. These being: staying with her until the ambulance arrived, making sure she wasn't already dead, ect. She was in and out of the hospital like crazy. And in all this mess, I had seen my mother for precisely what she was: scum. I honestly thought that i treated her way too decently for what she had been doing to me and Mr. Cobain. I mean, I could of just let her die, but then I would have felt ill with myself, so, I did what I could to help the 'ole woman. Even my step-father had started to realize that what he was doing to her was horrid during this time frame.

I will never forget the one time my step dad and I tried to put my mother trough rehab. Oh, what a vile choice we had made. She wasn't the type of woman that wanted help from anyone, other than her spouse's money. The first night we had shipped her away to Ollala Recovery Center, she had called me and literally begged to be welcome back home, but i didn't buy it. She had tried the whole, "I swear I'll never do it again, ever!" thing on me, but come on, can you see me believing that? Never. She had stayed a grand total of eight out of ninety days in rehab. She was a quitter. Seeing her sober for the first time was a very chilling sight. She was much nicer, very well kept, and she even showed affection for me. These things I had never seen before, and, quite frankly, I had wished she would have made a full recovery, but this never happened. She soon relapsed after being sober for and integral of thirteen days. Mr. Cobain and I would be in for a few rough years of never hearing the end of this treacherous event.

Around the fifth month of their marriage the weekly raping had begun. He said it was because he loved me, and that this was normal. I was four months shy of nine. I had no idea what was really going on until I told one of my older friends, but even then there was nothing I could do about it because I was afraid to contact the police. He never left any marks on me, which made it seem unlikely for them to believe me, anyway. During this time of my life, I had started spending little to no time at home with them. I had began trying to spend only two or three hours of attentive time there, and even the given efforts of escaping were never enough.

Even with the regular raping, Mr. Cobain had become somewhat of a close friend of mine. He had aways been there to listen to me when my friends were away and I needed someone to talk to, and it actually seemed like he cared. He would also talk to me about mom on occasion. About how he felt guilty for the ways she was, but I would always assure him that it was in no way his fault. Even though he did provide for her, it really wasn't his fault that my real father had left her all alone with a baby on the way, forcing her into deep depression. Needless to say, Mr. Cobain was the only father-figure type of person I had in my old life.

Just a month before their seventh month anniversary, Mr. Cobain had enlightened me with the knowledge of the not so splendid news of my mother's possible pregnancy. Now, this had struck me as awkwardly as seeing your parents having sex. The whole day my brain was teeming with pessimistic thoughts of how this child's life would be. The only good thing my mind could process out of this situation was the fact that I would have a younger brother or sister to confide in. The very next day, my mother had shown me the pregnancy test with the ugly, blue plus sign, meaning she had a growing zygote inside of her womb. She took every ounce of rage she had out on me that evening. Considering it was not my fault she was pregnant, I saw no reasoning for this. But alas, the fetus was aborted by mother dearest personally. She drank and drugged it to death, and the repugnance I had felt toward her for doing this has yet to be lifted.