Chapter Nineteen: Mixed Feelings Totally Alone

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I sat there balling for what seemed like forever until, eventually, my sobs turned into quiet whimpers, and my quiet whimpers turned into silent thoughts.

Staring blankly at the gravel underneath my legs, getting drenched in the pounding rain, I thought about everything that had taken place in my life within the past two days.


"Hey mom," I said while kissing the only photo of my mother that I owned in my tiny, dank room. Looking around I felt disgusted to be in these living conditions. My "papa" hadn't cared to keep the house going after my mother left us, so everything had begun to rot and decay.

I'm not only a student at the DWMA, but I'm also my own maid as well. I'm the only one around here who keeps this household in check. The unhelpful part about that though is that while I'm tending to everything else in the house I often have to neglect my own living space because there are only so many hours in a day.

"MAKAAA!!!!" My father screamed my name as he burst through my bedroom door, as he always does at least once every day.

"What." I didn't care to know what he wanted. I stopped caring long ago after watching him threaten my mother when she left. He was a waste of space, life, time, and shared DNA.

"Are you going out tonight?" He asked me in that newly acquired, incessant and obsessive tone. He never cared about what I did before mom left, so why does he have to care so much now?

I looked back down at her picture and scowled, trying to piece together my response. Every word had to ooze with as much venom as I could muster up in hat exact moment. "I'm going to hangout with a friend. Why do you care? It's not like you've ever cared about what I did before. And I don't need your fake 'fatherly' love just because you feel like I want it. Because I don't! Not from you. It's not like you've ever acted like a father to me anyway, so don't pull a muscle while trying to keep up the act."

There. That should do it until our next conversation. I glared at him, daring him to deny my accusations.

Spirit opened his mouth but clamped it shut again because he knew that it was nothing but the dry, yeastless, factuality. And he couldn't refute that.

After a short while I turned back to the picture I was grasping.

I could sense that he was glancing at the object in my hand and I heard his breath hitch. His face darkened in depression as he realized our harsh circumstance and he slowly slinked out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. I heard a door from the other end of the house close and a lock click, signaling for unwanted visitors to stay away.

I sighed, letting out a deep breath of air I didn't know I was holding.

Every time I talk to him my blood boils, my eyes see red, and I immediately feel like every bit of strength I have is completely used up and worn out. Why does our relationship have to be so strenuous? It's hard to talk civilly to him after everything he's done to this family. But why can't I just forgive and forget? To just bring myself to do either of those things?

But even before asking myself the sharply pointed question, I already knew the answer. I knew I could never do it. My mind could never bring itself to forget. And my heart could never trust him enough to forgive.

I sighed softly again, studying my mother's soft, smiling face. "What am I gonna do mom?"

I kissed the old photograph one last time before placing it neatly back into its previous position. As quietly as possible, I walked out the front door of the house, so as to not disrupt the other person, who was most likely sulking like a child in the corner of his room.

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