My numbed ringing chorus. (Non fanfic), chapter 2
Beep.
Oh, another voicemail, what would it be this time? Carefully taliored emotional blackmail, the sort I'd been accused of her by so many times?
Maybe she'd genuinely be upset. No, I doubt it.
Angry? Yes. And I loved it, I loved every second of it. Here I was, doing what I wanted for the first time in my life, and for once she couldn't stop me.
I didn't need to do what she said.
And I felt amazing.
There was always something about my mother that made me feel so small, so stupid, and so ugly, and my dad was patronising and cruel to me. He always was. They're what spawned the hatred I was full of, and I inflicted on myself.
That I scratched and stabbed and plucked and singed myself for.
That I scarred and mutilated myself for.
For them.
For how they treated me, it sounds absurd. It probably is absurd. It helps me, though. It's what it's my thought to cling on to, to defend myself with.
I blame my parents for every problem in my life. I'm bitter, I'm twisted, and in my eyes, I damn well deserve to be.
I'd been spiralling downwards. Until now.
Now I was as free as a bird, I didn't know where I was going, but I was comfortable for the moment. That didn't matter. I'd managed to move out. I'd managed to do what I had been fantasizing about since I was 13.
I did it.
But there was a lead balloon attached to my wings, pulling me down. Ashamed to admit it, I was thankful in a weird way. It was what finally prompted me to move out.
When my brother left a year and a half ago, I died inside. I knew he'd be gone. But when he was, I just wasn't strong enough. He buggered off to join the army, and I got through on auto pilot. Numb to the world, I came alive in art, excelling in my drawing and music. Knowing I wasn't totally alone, he was there, somewhere.
Now I had fallen from having basically nothing to even less. Because now he wasn't even alive.
I had a double whammy. I was detached, away from my parents, whom I had never liked, and longed to be away from. I was also detached to my brother. Moreso. He was my very heart and my very soul. He was my backbone through my delicate teenage years. Even when he had left, my brother was what kept me breathing. Now I had nothing.
Oh, another voicemail, what would it be this time? Carefully taliored emotional blackmail, the sort I'd been accused of her by so many times?
Maybe she'd genuinely be upset. No, I doubt it.
Angry? Yes. And I loved it, I loved every second of it. Here I was, doing what I wanted for the first time in my life, and for once she couldn't stop me.
I didn't need to do what she said.
And I felt amazing.
There was always something about my mother that made me feel so small, so stupid, and so ugly, and my dad was patronising and cruel to me. He always was. They're what spawned the hatred I was full of, and I inflicted on myself.
That I scratched and stabbed and plucked and singed myself for.
That I scarred and mutilated myself for.
For them.
For how they treated me, it sounds absurd. It probably is absurd. It helps me, though. It's what it's my thought to cling on to, to defend myself with.
I blame my parents for every problem in my life. I'm bitter, I'm twisted, and in my eyes, I damn well deserve to be.
I'd been spiralling downwards. Until now.
Now I was as free as a bird, I didn't know where I was going, but I was comfortable for the moment. That didn't matter. I'd managed to move out. I'd managed to do what I had been fantasizing about since I was 13.
I did it.
But there was a lead balloon attached to my wings, pulling me down. Ashamed to admit it, I was thankful in a weird way. It was what finally prompted me to move out.
When my brother left a year and a half ago, I died inside. I knew he'd be gone. But when he was, I just wasn't strong enough. He buggered off to join the army, and I got through on auto pilot. Numb to the world, I came alive in art, excelling in my drawing and music. Knowing I wasn't totally alone, he was there, somewhere.
Now I had fallen from having basically nothing to even less. Because now he wasn't even alive.
I had a double whammy. I was detached, away from my parents, whom I had never liked, and longed to be away from. I was also detached to my brother. Moreso. He was my very heart and my very soul. He was my backbone through my delicate teenage years. Even when he had left, my brother was what kept me breathing. Now I had nothing.
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