The Days Of Kelsea's

(19) Kelsea - Sunday 26th August, 11.43 p.m., My Room.

(19) Kelsea - Sunday 26th August, 11.43 p.m, my Room.

I never really have prayed that much. I think I talked to you about this before, didn't I? God, praying, philosophy. I talked about it in here because Kale spoke about God to me, and I thought about how much faith Gram and Lucy have in God.

I said that God sounded like such a beautiful thing to believe in, and I stand by that. Because I've just found myself praying.

Today, I woke up and went downstairs to find the sitting room looking like it had been attacked and raided and then blown up. It was pretty early - about eight. And in the middle of the room, on the carpet, my mother was curled up with her head in her hands. Because she hadn't seen me, I remember slowly observing the silent wreckage and wondering why I hadn't heard her tearing the place apart. I mean, how could you do this sort of thing in silence?

Picture frames were on the floor, the glass smashed. The cushions had been flung into various corners of the room, and books were in a massive messy pile at the bottom of our vintage bookcase, some of them open from being flung on the ground. 

MY books. 

And that's when the anger sparked up inside of me, and I began to notice more things - pictures hanging on one nail on the wall, the wallpaper torn, piles of CDs having been kicked over. My mother then sat up straight and looked up at me with bloodshot eyes, and I saw the bottle in her hand.

"Mum," I hissed. "Please..." I dropped to my own knees, in front of her shaking form. 

She then jerked her head up to look at me, and oh, the fierceness in her eyes! It was fucking scary. I wanted to run. I wanted to have a different mother. I wanted to leave, and go and live with Gram.

"Kelsea, leave me alone. You're a selfish little brat," she slurred. I tried to take the bottle out of her hands but she just held on tighter, and clawed at me. 

I felt like crying. I feel like crying now. I remember replying then, "Mum... It'll be alright. Please. You'll see, I'll help you... Lucy will help you..." 

I just don't understand how yesterday she was making homemade lasagne for us. And now she was calling me a selfish brat while pissed out of her mind. 

"Go away!" She screamed. "Leave me alone, Kelsea!" That hurt more than anything - her pushing me away when I wanted to help her, even though she'd been such an awful mother. 

Oh God. I didn't mean that ... Did I? How could I say something like that? 

I remember leaning back, and then releasing my grip on the bottle she was holding. "Okay," I whispered. And I retired to the kitchen. And when Lucy came down with bleary eyes moments later, she looked over at me with a silently questioning look. And I just shook my head, registering the utter shock and utter panic on my sister's poor, sullen face. 

Mum went upstairs after that and closed her bedroom door. She'd probably gone to bed. I still can't get over how she'd reacted to my innocent helping. How she'd screamed in her own daughter's face. It's like I want to cry and go and tear everything apart that she cares about, since she doesn't care about me. But no tears will come because the truth is, she isn't worth my tears. But do you ever get that feeling where you want to work yourself up? Where you want to cry? I don't know how many times that I have felt that - countless times, definitely. 

I don't know why I keep asking this diary questions and questions. Looking for answers that won't come. I'd like to think you have some sort of brain, since no one real will ever read this, and that you can understand, and you have feelings, and that you care about me.