I sit alone in my room with the ice cold barrel of a gun gently touching the side of my head. My hands are shaking as I rest my finger on the trigger. Tears are silently falling off my face as I sit on my bed. Why did it have to come to this? I try to pull the trigger but my finger refuses to do the job. I drop the gun and just cry. I see my tears fall like rain to the wooden floor below me. I just sit on my bed and think of the reasons I tried to take my own life.
My mother is the reason. She is the reason I would rather burn in hell for all eternity than live on this planet anymore. In my eyes they are equally bad. All she does is get drunk and do whatever she can to hurt me. She beats me, burns me with cigarettes, and just lets me know what a worthless piece of garbage I am. How ever since I was born her life has been nothing but hell. It is a horrible feeling knowing that your own mother, the person who is supposed to love and nurture you, blames you for all the things wrong with her life.
She has been this way ever since my father died. He was a police officer who ended up dying from a gunshot wound in one of the local gang wars. The night my father died is the night my mother started drinking. When we should have been talking and helping each other through the death, she was out partying with her new found "friends." When I woke up screaming from the nightmares of my father getting killed over and over again, I would just lie in bed and cry myself back to sleep because I knew that she wasn't home to talk to.
I take another glance at the gun and slowly stand up and make my way to the kitchen to get something to drink. I grab a glass of water and sit down at the kitchen table. Thankfully my mother is asleep with a bad hang over. She won't be waking up for another two hours at the least. I can feel the water slide down my dry throat as I take a sip.
I hear someone knocking on the door and quickly run over to open it. I can see the UPS truck on the drive way and grab the package and make my way back to the kitchen to set the package on the table. I hear my mother's door creak open and I can see her slowly walking out with her hand rubbing the top of her head. When she sees me I instantly see something in her eyes. In her eyes I can see a hundred fires burning within.
She quickly walks over and slaps me across the face. It burns but I have begun to grow numb to the pain. I can hear her shouting complete gibberish that I can't understand.
She drags me over to her purse where she then grabs a cigarette and quickly lights it with a lighter. After a couple of smokes she places it on my arm. I do my best not to cry out because that only makes her make the pain worse. When she is done with me I make my way back to my room. That's when I remember the gun.
I pick up the gun and sit back down on my bed. Thoughts are running through my head again, but this time not of suicide, this time my thoughts are of homicide. I am far past my breaking point. I pick up the gun and make my way to my mom. I see her sleeping on her favorite chair. I slowly walk over next to her and put the gun against the back of her head. I don't even hear the bullet by I see my mother fall off the chair and hit the floor hard. The gun fall from my hand and the tears begin to flow again.
All I remember is cops coming in the house and dragging me out of there. I didn't speak nor did I hear what was spoken to me. Everything just started moving in slow motion. I remember sitting in a room and having an office ask me what happened. I told him exactly what happened. How I was pushed to my breaking point and how I shot my own mother. The cop doesn't respond he just stood up and walked out of the room. The last thing I can really remember was looking into one of the mirrors only to see my ice blue eyes now surrounded with my mother's blood.