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Mother“I love you.”
I hear you say it and I see your lips move, your thin, chapped lips. But you’re a liar.
“I love you too.”
I say it back anyway, because I don’t like the sting of your hand on my cheek.
“Be a good girl.”
What else can I possibly be, than a good girl? You won’t let me be anything else.
Here in this rotting house.
In this dirt-filled room.
Might as well chain me to the wall.
Five- Chapter 2While I had mixed feelings about taking up singing again, my dad was all smiles when I told him I had been entered (against my will, of course) into Quincy High’s Deci-Fest. My entire Wednesday evening was spent ‘warming up my voice’ (at my dad’s request), which really just consisted of me, the instrumentals to a few popular radio songs, a tape recorder, and my dad as my audience. And he was a very enthusiastic audience I might add, even when my voice cracked as I reached for the highest note of Kelly Clarkson’s song Walk Away. (I swear I don’t have a Clarkson obsession, her songs just happen to fit my voice.)
“And when you go way up high for that note, what do you make sure you do?” my dad quizzed me, taking a sip of Vodka mixed with orange juice.
“Land on top of it, don’t strain to reach it,” I said with straight face, although mentally I was rolling my eyes.
“That’s right. Okay, next song.”
So went m
What I Can't Say to Your FaceThat punched-in-the-gut feeling, when your stomach flip-flops and your heart has a mini seizure and your head spins. That’s the feeling I get, a hundred times over, and it’s one of the worst in the world. And I get it so easily. All it takes is a few letters thrown together that even LOOK like a part of your name, and bam. My brain is like, “Let’s take a trip down memory lane!”
I hate you. I hate the fact that you’re so goddamn perfect, I hate how you make me feel, I hate that I still remember your name.
You were supposed to leave, remember? Leave and never return. Never bother me again. But you, you little cretin, you just keep on coming back, always finding ways to make me want to hurl my insides.
I lied. It’s not you I hate, not really. I say that I do, and I talk up all the things you did to me to make them seem so awful. To make it seem like you were the asshole. In truth, I hate myself. I loathe every fiber of my being for letting you sli
Dark, too. I think I’m asleep. Maybe even dreaming.
I never dream.
Dreams reflect reality, right? Whatever you dream about is supposed to tie in with your life somehow. Right?
What if I’m not dreaming? What if I’ve gone blind and deaf? A modern-day Helen Keller?
Anything is possible.
I smell fire. No, that’s not right… I smell the smoke from a fire. Is that you? You shouldn’t burn all those things. You got in trouble last time.
So much trouble.
That’s why you’re here, you know. Because you burn things.
Me? They say I’m crazy. Paranoid. Schizophrenic. But that’s not true.
I just know more than them.
You and me, we’re alike. We really are. No one understands us, but we understand each other. Except, sometimes, you scare me. But sometimes I scare myself, too. So we really are alike.
Wait…where are you going? I’m not finished yet!
I’m not finished…
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Endorell-Taelos is very well known within the community for her selfless giving and gracious community spirit. Since joining DeviantART over seven years ago, Alicia has continued to make a positive impact on many deviants. Her helpful and thoughtful approach was one of her finest attributes when serving as a Community Volunteer, and this has continued throughout the many contests which Alicia provides on a regular basis. As we approach our Birthday celebrations, we can't... Read More