A Bandage
I come from school as I always do; trudging through the newly fallen snow, entering the empty garage, kicking off my soaked, worn boots. The house looks the same. The hall looks the same. The kitchen looks the same. Nothing has changed, and nothing ever will.
"Mom's upstairs. Hammered." My father informs me as I toss my jacket over the back of the kitchen chair. He laughs. It's a bitter laugh, but still a laugh.
"What else is new." I join in on the laughter on cue. They claim laughter is the best medicine. I find it a poison, no, a bandage. One that covers the gaping wounds of truth that uncontrollably suffocate me. Leaving only a faint sting, and a bitter laugh.
then hide myself in my room as I typically do upon returning home. No one questions it. I am alone with my silence and the sounds of the keys of my laptop clicking.
hen I heard the shouting. It wasn't anything unusual to me anymore. I simply shut my door and focused my attention on the words that flashed across my computer screen. This time, the shouting only grew louder. Like an infection. A burning infection; it only gets worse.
I can feel the sting of the bandage as if ripped from my skin. But there will be no blood. No cleansing of the wound. There will be no blood.
My door is opened and my father appears. He whispers my name slowly, softly in an unsteady voice.
"We need to do something." His voice scratches.
"Don't suck up to the kids!" My mother barks from across the hall. I can feel myself shaking now. I tell myself to focus on the laptop screen. But I can't tear my eyes from what is happening just outside my room.
Before I can compose myself I've gotten to my feet.
"Will you both fucking shuck up." I shrieked. My voice came out as an indistinguishable growl. Shattered. It wasn't my voice. I would have never had enough courage to do that.
quot;You." I shot into the hall, "Need to fucking get a hold of yourself."
The ropes I had tried so hard to secure had torn. The pills of sanity spilt.
I located the wineglass on my mother's counter in an instant.
The wineglass. The catalyst.
The look in my mother's eyes: terror, pure terror.
In mere seconds, chaos had been launched; glass splattered onto the floor. Hell's glitter rained into the carpet. The sound brought me sudden peace. Sudden relaxation. As if it were I that was intoxicated, and there was no pain, no hurt.
o more. No more.
t was over. I had won. The rest of the wine was tossed. A promise was made. Life seemed good.
hree days later I came from school as I always do; trudging through the newly fallen snow, entering the empty garage, kicking off my soaked, worn boots. The house looks the same. The hall looks the same. The kitchen looks the same. Nothing has changed, and nothing ever will.
"Mom's upstairs. Hammered."
A/N: I personal story I wrote for a creative writing class. I didn't want her to know that it was based on my own life so the narrator is nameless as well as their is a father character. The father in this story is actually my step father. My parents are divorced and my father lives in Winnipeg. I hardly see him. He doesn't call anymore either. My mother's a alcoholic nd I don't know what to do.