Vice City : The Bud

Chapter 9 - Forget

Authors Note - please be kind, I'm not a professional writer I do this as a hobby - Leave a vote/comment if you enjoy as every little bit helps

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Chapter9 - The Bud - Forget

I'vebeen changing. I can feel it in the bottom of my soul. Like I'mwaking up at last. It's frightening to think what I'm capable ofbut bringing back the forgotten glimpses of my past, of Jeremy and mymother, has lit a fire beneath my kindling of curiosity. Things Ihave tried to put behind me are now standing at my doorstep.

I'mlying in bed, I know this for sure. I distinctly remember clamberingin. Rolling restlessly from side to side trying my best to catch thenight's expected slumber. Then why am I not there now ? I'm notin my bed and I'm not me as I should be. I am once again me as Iwas. Young and innocent. Haunted only by the death of my brotherJeremy. I don't know how, but I can tell exactly how long it'sbeen since the funeral of my brother to the body I inhabit now. It'sa measly three months from where my last vision in which the tragedyreplayed from my past. Three months since the silent contemplation ofmy mother began.

I'msat on the floor of my old room surrounded by a mess of toys. But Idon't touch them. I stare at the wall opposite me. Images ofJeremy's broken body infest my thoughts. My mother's blank faceprojects itself from my mind to the white canvas of the bricks infront. My brother may be gone but the smell still remains. Everyonehas a scent, and to be left with the aroma of someone you know you'llnever see again is disturbingly macabre. It gives the sensation ofthem standing beside you and yet every time you turn to see theirface one last time, there's nothing but empty space. In my handsI'm holding the firetruck toy, the last toy Jeremy and I everplayed with together. I don't want to let it go. In some strangeway it's like I can feel him in it. It's captured his lastmoments of happiness and through its touch I can see his smiles, evenpast the shroud of his violent expulsion from life. I close my eyesand feel the forged metal in my palm. The sharp corners push into mysoft skin until with a gentle clip it has pierced it. A drop of bloodescapes my grasp and I can feel more coming but I dare not loosen forfear of losing what remains of him. I remember the pain in mymother's eyes as she cradled herself at the bottom of those stairs.My father's willingness to pretend nothing has happened is aninfuriating reminder of the hell I live in.

Infact, I can hear him now. Out my door and down the hall his neverending bout of screaming slurs continues as it always has. He must betalking to my mother who undoubtedly says nothing in retaliation. Shebarely even moves on her own anymore. The pain in my hands is gone.All that stays now is the warming drops of blood that trickle betweenmy fingers. I pull my hands apart and with that the firetruck fallsto the floor. It's crimson paint is matched only by the crimsondroplets that follow. There's a slam outside that causes me to turnsuddenly, half expecting my bedroom door to burst open to show myfather brandishing a weapon of some description. But this is not tobe the case. Instead I choose to open the door myself. Peakingthrough to the hallway I see my father pacing the small stretchbetween my mother's room and my own. Each time he passes the end ofthe bannister he smacks it with a heavy fist and mumbles inaudiblewords as I cower behind my door. There's a moment in which I thinkhe spots me. He gazes over in my direction and snarls. Thankfully hedoesn't appear to have seen me, it's more a grunt for his ownpleasure, his own purpose. He calls out in frustration.

"I'mgoing out !" He screams after having paced the hall for a solid tenminutes.

Hestorms down the stairs with a rumbling jog but it's not until Ihear the door shut behind him that I dare to venture forward.

Myfather was never a nurturing man by any means, but things appear tohave worsened. Perhaps due to the guilt of a conscience drowned inbooze. In the months since the funeral he's spoken little to me, aswell as drinking to the excessive limits of his body. He can't lookme in the eye, not anymore. His once piercing gaze is now afluttering flash past my stares. I'm glad. Had he looked into myeyes all he would find there is the same loathing and hatred he hadonce shown me. His power taken and his confidence tainted with guilthe instills no fear in me. No sorrow. There's a special place inthe depths of the underworld for sadistic drunks like him.