"I get it mom! I'll stop staying out later, okay? Jesus." I screamed at my hysterical mother, who was currently following me down the hall to my room.
"You always tell me this, and you never stop. Never," she looked me in the eyes, as i turned around to stare at her, "and I can't take it anymore, Jessica. Every weekend, I always see you leave at 7:00pm or 8:00pm off to those god awful friends-"
"Dont call my friends god awful, they understand me!" I screamed at her, my anger bubbling out. She only started crying harder, dropping to her knees.
"And I never get calls or texts or anything- and I just- I cant take it, Jessica!" she yells out, expasterated, falling into a sobbing mess. My eyes widened, as i see my mother continue to cry. I sigh, and drop to my knees next to her, my black stilletos piercing into my skin, but that didn't matter. I rubbed my mother's back, whispering soothing words to her. I can't believe i've done this to her- MY OWN MOM! I started crying my self, my previously perfect make up, running down my face like two imperfectly perfect waterfalls. I've broken her. Ever since that good for nothing piece of shit father left me...us, I've been changed. I've resorted to the scummmiest things as alchol addiction all the way to the horrid things that you actually stab yourself with. I can't freaking control myself, either. Every day, I blame myself, for the reason my dad left us.
Everyday, its the same exact thing. The feeling of regret, the feeling of responsibility for the pain of your own mother. Of yourself. Everyday, i drink away my feelings, everyday, i get high for the utter sake of not feeling the sorrow, the guilt of doing this to my mother. My mother. I have only made her worse. Every single god damned day, my life is centered around those god damn brown, clear bottles, filled with the one thing that i think can make my pain go away. Or that clear, plastic syringe that holds that one substance that can make me feel happy for once in my life. And when my eyes run out of tears, I make sure that my wrists cry for them, red tears, and they haven't stopped crying. Every day.
But i never ever thought that my mom would get caught up in my black hole of depression.
We sat there in silence, the only thing that could be heard was the hiccups coming from my fragile mother.
"I promise, mom," More tears slipped out of my puffy eyes, "I promise, I will try to stop. For you." she only cried even harder. We sat, and sat, and sat. We couldn't utter a single word.
YOU ARE READING
Roll The Dice
Short StoryThese are some short stories I come up with when I'm bored, but don't see myself writing a book on it. If you see an idea you like, you can ask me if you can use it for a book. I don't really mind. Some can be depressing, some are scary, and some ar...
