Shattered Glass, chapter 1
My alarm clock woke me up early as usual. My alarm clock meaning glass shattering. I sighed as I grabbed a bandage from the medicine cabinet and plodded down the stairs to the sight of my Mum clutching half a beer bottle in her palm, the other half shattered deep in the flesh of her wrist.I cleaned up her wrist then wrapped the bandage around it.
I was used to this by now. It had happened constantly for the past two months since my Dad.....passed away. Oh who am I kidding?! He slit his wrists. Simple as that. I love my Mum more than anything in the world, but if she thinks she has it bad, she should spend a day with my mind.
I was the lucky one who found him, clutching a metal pen knife in his right hand. I remember it so exactly, I can still practically see the pool of blood painting the floor. No matter how many nights I lay awake in my bed tossing and turning, the image of the last time I saw him will not lose me. It continues to haunt me.
I kissed my Mum on her cheek, wrapped the glass in a sheet of newspaper, and deposited it in the kitchen bin. The clock read 5:39, so not much point going back to bed. I trudged slowly up the stairs, and paused in front of the mirror. My eyes stared questioningly back at me. His eyes. I crouched down whilst stroking the mirror soothingly.
Everyone said I had his eyes. I agreed, never actually checking. I was too thrilled that I had atleast the smallest thread of a memory. A tear escaped my pupils, and I started to wonder if he had cried the same tears. If he had maybe lost someone he had loved, stared into a mirror, cried silent tears.
I shook myself out of my fantasy, and carried on climbing the stairs. As I passed the bathroom I was sure I saw him. I switched on my Good Charlotte CD as loud as I wanted and the words of hold on wrapped its arms round me and rocked me to sleep.
I was used to this by now. It had happened constantly for the past two months since my Dad.....passed away. Oh who am I kidding?! He slit his wrists. Simple as that. I love my Mum more than anything in the world, but if she thinks she has it bad, she should spend a day with my mind.
I was the lucky one who found him, clutching a metal pen knife in his right hand. I remember it so exactly, I can still practically see the pool of blood painting the floor. No matter how many nights I lay awake in my bed tossing and turning, the image of the last time I saw him will not lose me. It continues to haunt me.
I kissed my Mum on her cheek, wrapped the glass in a sheet of newspaper, and deposited it in the kitchen bin. The clock read 5:39, so not much point going back to bed. I trudged slowly up the stairs, and paused in front of the mirror. My eyes stared questioningly back at me. His eyes. I crouched down whilst stroking the mirror soothingly.
Everyone said I had his eyes. I agreed, never actually checking. I was too thrilled that I had atleast the smallest thread of a memory. A tear escaped my pupils, and I started to wonder if he had cried the same tears. If he had maybe lost someone he had loved, stared into a mirror, cried silent tears.
I shook myself out of my fantasy, and carried on climbing the stairs. As I passed the bathroom I was sure I saw him. I switched on my Good Charlotte CD as loud as I wanted and the words of hold on wrapped its arms round me and rocked me to sleep.
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