literature

Emotional Vignette: Shattered Lives

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I cringe as I hear the soft whoosh of the fridge opening, the small clink of a bottle being removed, the defeated shuffle of a lost soul. Mommy and daddy have been fighting again. I heard the screams, the shattering glass, the sobs mommy choked out as daddy brought down his hand. Brought it down again and again. I edge toward the kitchen and watch as mommy drowns her sorrows in vodka once more.  Her face is red, other skin purple, black, blue, green, yellow-- all shades of pain. I watch silent tears trail down her face as she takes a swig straight from the bottle, dependent on the clear hand to whisk her away to a world where her and daddy don't fight. Where daddy doesn't take out his frustration on us. Where she and her daughter don't live in fear. She drinks, hoping the pain will fade. She drinks, hoping her scars will disappear. She drinks, coercing her bruises to heal. She drinks, wanting to drink just enough to fade away forever. In a short time, mommy's consumed the whole bottle, and with it, her own self. I hear the sudden thud of her head on the kitchen table as she passes out in a puddle of her own tears, blood, drool, and sweat. I collapse against the wall, wincing at the bite of pain as my own bruised back collides with the hard, concrete surface. I crawl over to mama and drag her unconscious body to the couch. I curl up in her arms, and fall asleep drowning in my own sobs, pretending I'm in a world where daddies don't hit and mommies don't try to fade from it.
More prose. Yay!
Last post, I believe.
This popped in my mind when I opened my fridge to get a bottle of water.
© 2012 - 2024 Meowmixftw
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