Her Dirty Little Secret (COMPLETED STORY)

Goodbye My Dear

She took a seat in attempts to compose herself. Lastly, my mother stood up from her seat in front of all of us.

"Some of you may have heard of me already. Or all of you may know. I was involved with a serious murder case of a very famous musician. His name was Eric Harper."

I felt chills traveling up and down my spine.

The name irked me. My soul and entire being. How dare she meet my father but I never had gotten the chance to. She never deserved him. He didn't deserve her either.

"I regret everything I've done in my past. I was also convicted of selling prescription drugs for money. I ended up overdosing while pregnant with my second child," her voice quivered.

Bitch don't cry now! You ass wasn't sorry back then! Hell you didn't even think twice before taking those pills. You never considered your child. Your family and your own life!

She wiped away a teardrop and sniffles.

"You may know now that she is my child," she informs everyone while pointing directly at me. "It breaks my heart to see her here. I expected better from her. I don't want her to turn out like me."

"Well unlike you, I didn't kill two people unthinkingly all for money so don't ever compare myself with the likes of you," I retorted.

I felt offended and her reaction was appalled. "Emily I know you're hurt and you feel like I abandoned you guys. To tell you the truth, I wasn't thinking about anyone else. You were right about that. But I love you more than ever. Everyday I thought about you and you're well-being. Dominic and so on. I wish I can come home and take it all back."

"Well you can't!" I yelled. I felt the burning hot tears stunning in my eyes. The burning hot fire eating away at my heart.

"It's already said and done! You can't play with life like it's a fucking joke India!"

"Don't you ever refer to me by my name, you call me mother is that understood?"

"Well you've never been a mother to me so you don't deserve that title," I snarled.

Her mouth gaped open. She took a seat and remained quiet. The inmates looked as if they had something to say but chose to remain silent.

They knew my mouth was disrespectful. Hurtful. Honest and blunt and that I didn't care much for feelings.

I was a little girl in their eyes yet something about this "little girl" was tragic. Not to be touched or to be kept. To be proceeded with caution for they just might get a taste of her painful wrath.

A part of me wanted to hug her, and let those soft warm arms embrace me in return. To tell her that I loved her. That I missed her. That I wish that she would just come home to us and take back her place that Barbara unlawfully took from her.

Yet, there was the stronger emotion self hatred, the many adversities of life and the loathing and disgusts of her presence. How I wish she could feel the pain and heartache I endured everyday. The many nights I cried wishing that she would just come home. The physical urges of wanting to brutally beat her were graphic. Explicit if you will, vivid. Dangerous and unspeakable.

The part of me wanting to call her every bad thing in the book just to see her cry. To laugh and mock her. To feel delighted at the sight of self inflicted pain.

The lonesome nights I spent in solitude, plotting of ways to kill her. Dismembering her body, starting with her toes. Her feet, then gradually moving up to her calves. I would enjoy the sharp screams of terror and excruciating pain.