|If only the morning would never come
Author: forbidden passion PM
a journal like entry of last night. (deals with my parents death, and the feeling of being alone)Rated: Fiction T - English - Drama - Words: 971 - Reviews: 5 - Published: 09-02-05 - id: 1998989
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I fumble with the bathtub plug; pulling and yanking it in a million different directions, it refuses to budge. My breathing was becoming labored, my short fuse ignited, the plug my target. "I hate my tub" the words seeped out like venom. My tub, the words swam in my brain provoking emotions I wasn't ready to come to terms with yet. "My tub" didn't belong, my tub was back at my home, and my home died with my parents.
My parents, my mom loved to sing and dance. I can vividly picture her swaying her hips and singing her favorite song "Sad eyes". The words sing loudly in my head. "Sad eyes turn the other way, because I don't want to see you cry". My mom had a certain routine, every morning she'd wake up have her coffee then clean the house. If you tried to have a conversation with her before her coffee, you'd fail miserably. My mother also had a twisted sense of humor, which is where I probably inherited mine from. I still hear her voice, soft and welcoming, in my dreams. I curse the higher power for letting me wake up. My dad was the greatest man to ever live, when I say this aloud my eyes gleam with adoration. He fought the good fight. He was ill for years, as long as I can remember really. Everyone says the reason he fought so hard to stay alive was because of me. My dad and I were like peanut butter and jelly; we were always together when I was younger. He always made me smile, and feel important. His blue eyes still burn in my mind. I still pick up the phone expecting to hear his voice "Hey big girl, how was your day". I'd give my arms and legs to hear his voice one more time. One thing that really sticks out in my mind was his tattoo. "Hell is for Heroes" it said in red letters under a pair of cross rifles. My father was a hero, but the last place he deserves to be in is hell.
I snap back to reality, a torrent of tears hitting the shaving cream scented water. My hand reached for the ledge, and I pull myself up. I had given up the fight with the plug; the water can stay in the tub for all I care. The condensation on the mirror disorients my vision, and the steam makes me feel sticky. I throw my old worn towel over my shoulder, and heads to my room. The half naked fictional women on my walls welcome me with their disproportioned breasts. The strong scent of dog wafts into my nostrils, causing me to almost sneeze. I pull random clothes out of the draw and start to get dressed. It was no easy task; my shirt kept sticking to my chest and my pants wouldn't cooperate. After I finally managed to get some clothes on, I ran a comb through my dead black hair, in hopes of looking semi-decent.
I looked around the floor of my bedroom, tonight was a good night to drown my thoughts with mind numbing television. I spotted it by the entertainment center. As I bent over to pick it up, my dog jumped on my back, attempting to hump me. I howled at him that it was "impolite" but he didn't hear me, typical man. So I virtually flipped myself so he would go flying. Liam assumed it was a game, so he bowed with both of his paws on the ground. I told him "not tonight", his ears drooped like he understood what I said. I felt kind of bad. These last few weeks I haven't spent much time with him. So I pet the bridge of his nose for a few minutes, and then turned on the TV.
Nothing remotely interesting was on. So I rolled off my mattress, that's conveniently located on the floor, and started to stand up. In the corner of my eye I notice the small grey marble like urn, which had a flag on its front side. I stared for a few minutes, and then stood all the way up. I walked over to it, picked it up and started to cry again. The only thing I could think of was what he looked like the last time I saw him, three days before he died. He couldn't talk or anything he was in a coma. My aunt insisted he could hear me, but I couldn't talk; I was trying too hard to swallow the vomit rising in my throat. Everything crashed for me then. I was alone. My parents are gone, my relationship with the one person I ever truly loved, had ended, and I couldn't tell anyone how bad I felt. The urn was cold in my hand, the ashes moved around in an eerie way. I placed it back on the shelf.
My stomach was in knots as I made my way back to my bed. My thoughts were flying a second a minute, and I couldn't hear anything else. My pillows were nice and soft, so I let myself drift off into sleep. My eyes closed, and my mind shut down. If only the morning would never come.
AN: this was something I felt like I needed to write. It was what happened last night. It's not a poem, or a story; More or less a journal entry if anything. And I'm working on a new poem; it should be up today or tomorrow. (i don't think there any grammar or spelling issues, i checked it like 5 times, if there is then i'm sorry)