You Took A Piece Of Me The Day You Went Away
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Ronnie fell back onto his bed, running his fingers through his long, messy hair. He's so exhausted. He hasn't been able to sleep lately, no matter how hard he tries. He's even tried that bullshit with counting sheep, but nothing is working. His thoughts have been primarily consumed with one thing: His mother.
Ronnie's drug addict of a mother abandoned him and his older brother Brian and their father when Ronnie was a small child. He was so young that he can’t remember a single thing about the woman who brought him into this cruel world. At least Brian was able to remember small things about her, like the color of her dark hair and the faint smell of her perfume. But Brian was also just old enough to remember the arguments. Their mother and father would argue about what Ronnie could only assume was his mother’s extensive drug abuse. It was his mother’s fault.
He couldn’t even bring himself to call her Mom, even in his own head. A mom is someone who cares for her children when they‘re sick, who loves them and helps them with their problems. Ronnie’s mother never even stayed around long enough to know him, let alone care about him. She has no idea who he is. The small children she left behind so many years ago were now grown men, raised by his father.
His father. Ronnie’s father was a good man with a good heart. He tried his best to raise his boys a well as he could given the circumstance. Even while he was upset by Ronnie’s mother leaving, he just concentrated on making sure his kids were well fed and taken care of. Ronnie will always be proud of him for that.
Ronnie’s thoughts once again went to his mother’s drug addiction.
It must be a Radke thing. Ronnie thought as he glanced towards his not so secret stash of Oxycontin hidden in his sock drawer. He wanted to escape the pain and monotony that was his life, but he didn’t want to kill himself. He thought he could fill the gaping hole in his chest that his mother’s abandonment had created with drugs and alcohol. He’d started smoking weed and drinking regularly a few years ago, but soon, that wasn’t enough. He moved onto Oxycontin and tried cocaine every once in a while. But he wasn’t addicted. At least that’s what he told himself when he looked at his reflection in the mirror.
His brother Brian was the addict. His drug of choice was heroine. Ronnie sat up and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Brian would be getting off work in twenty minutes, if he still had a job to go to. He got fired after not showing up one too many times because he was passed out in his crappy apartment with a needle in his arm. He keeps hurting his girlfriend, who just so happens to be carrying his unborn twin girls, every time he shoots up.
Maybe its this place. Maybe if he left Vegas he’d be able to get better. Maybe he’d want to get better. They don’t call it Sin City for nothing. Ronnie thought as he backed up and leaned against the headboard on his bed. He closed his eyes and envisioned Brian taking his girlfriend and getting the fuck out of Vegas. Maybe he’d even find their mother.
At the thought of Brian finding their mother, Ronnie’s eyes shot open.
What would I say to that woman if I even met her? Ronnie thought. I’d probably say ‘Thanks for ruining my life, you worthless bitch.’ with a big smile on my fucking face. Then I’d go find some place to snort my Oxy. No. No, I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what I’d tell her. Ronnie’s gaze wandered to the acoustic guitar in the corner of his room. He slowly got out of bed and walked over to it. He ran his index finger down the fret board and then lifted it off the ground, carrying it to his bed. After he was seated back against the headboard, Ronnie reached over to his bedside table and grabbed the notebook and pencil resting there. Ronnie was going to do the only thing he knew how to do well to deal with this.
He was going to write a song.
Ronnie's drug addict of a mother abandoned him and his older brother Brian and their father when Ronnie was a small child. He was so young that he can’t remember a single thing about the woman who brought him into this cruel world. At least Brian was able to remember small things about her, like the color of her dark hair and the faint smell of her perfume. But Brian was also just old enough to remember the arguments. Their mother and father would argue about what Ronnie could only assume was his mother’s extensive drug abuse. It was his mother’s fault.
He couldn’t even bring himself to call her Mom, even in his own head. A mom is someone who cares for her children when they‘re sick, who loves them and helps them with their problems. Ronnie’s mother never even stayed around long enough to know him, let alone care about him. She has no idea who he is. The small children she left behind so many years ago were now grown men, raised by his father.
His father. Ronnie’s father was a good man with a good heart. He tried his best to raise his boys a well as he could given the circumstance. Even while he was upset by Ronnie’s mother leaving, he just concentrated on making sure his kids were well fed and taken care of. Ronnie will always be proud of him for that.
Ronnie’s thoughts once again went to his mother’s drug addiction.
It must be a Radke thing. Ronnie thought as he glanced towards his not so secret stash of Oxycontin hidden in his sock drawer. He wanted to escape the pain and monotony that was his life, but he didn’t want to kill himself. He thought he could fill the gaping hole in his chest that his mother’s abandonment had created with drugs and alcohol. He’d started smoking weed and drinking regularly a few years ago, but soon, that wasn’t enough. He moved onto Oxycontin and tried cocaine every once in a while. But he wasn’t addicted. At least that’s what he told himself when he looked at his reflection in the mirror.
His brother Brian was the addict. His drug of choice was heroine. Ronnie sat up and looked at the clock on his bedside table. Brian would be getting off work in twenty minutes, if he still had a job to go to. He got fired after not showing up one too many times because he was passed out in his crappy apartment with a needle in his arm. He keeps hurting his girlfriend, who just so happens to be carrying his unborn twin girls, every time he shoots up.
Maybe its this place. Maybe if he left Vegas he’d be able to get better. Maybe he’d want to get better. They don’t call it Sin City for nothing. Ronnie thought as he backed up and leaned against the headboard on his bed. He closed his eyes and envisioned Brian taking his girlfriend and getting the fuck out of Vegas. Maybe he’d even find their mother.
At the thought of Brian finding their mother, Ronnie’s eyes shot open.
What would I say to that woman if I even met her? Ronnie thought. I’d probably say ‘Thanks for ruining my life, you worthless bitch.’ with a big smile on my fucking face. Then I’d go find some place to snort my Oxy. No. No, I wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what I’d tell her. Ronnie’s gaze wandered to the acoustic guitar in the corner of his room. He slowly got out of bed and walked over to it. He ran his index finger down the fret board and then lifted it off the ground, carrying it to his bed. After he was seated back against the headboard, Ronnie reached over to his bedside table and grabbed the notebook and pencil resting there. Ronnie was going to do the only thing he knew how to do well to deal with this.
He was going to write a song.
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