A Short Story : A Story?

I walked away feeling like I was a complete failure and that I didn’t deserve to go on. On the way home my mother tried to talk to me, but, I put on my headphones and cried silently. Once we were home my father asked how it went. The tears that were in my eyes and they became more evident as my shoulders and chest were shaking and trembling. The only sound in the room was the sound of me crying and wailing. I started crumbling and falling to the ground and my mother and father rushed to my side. They held me until the tears came to a stop and a little bit afterwards

This also affects me to this day too. My father often referred to me as the “stupid child” since I did not thrive academically as my brother. While I was young, I struggled in school. My parents were so happy that my brother was excelling in school. My father often stated, “you are going to be dependent on you brother because you’re not as smart as he is, he is going to have to take care of you”. The emotional abuse I believe stunted some of my development during this time. While I was concerned about my brother, I was being psychological tortured with name calling and being belittled. I often heard reference terms as “girl, fruit-cake, faggot, and queer”. The most terrifying experience I recalled was when I was around seven. I cannot remember what I did but my father’s reaction was something I would never forget. He called me names and threated to cut off my hair with scissors while I was asleep. Throughout the night, he would startle me and I would hear the noise of scissors cutting. He did this several times this night. I remember going to school the next day exhausted since I was scared.

When I woke up in the morning, my mom had left for work. My dad was singing in the kitchen, banging pots around. I got up, tiptoed down the hall, washed my face. A neatly wrapped present lay on the bathroom counter. It was addressed to me. I stuffed it into my robe pocket, and rushed back down the hall. Under the covers, I opened the package. On the first page of a small, leather notebook, an inscription read: to a writer, love your mother. I never wrote anything in the notebook. I could never think of anything good

“After the shopping trip fiasco, my mom decided she wanted to learn to paint and ended up trying to purchase an entire art supply store over the phone. When my dad forced her to hang up, she went into a rage so fierce she pulled a knife on him. She kicked and screamed and yelled at him, called him the worst names I had ever heard, until she was crying on the floor again. Dad put her into the hospital after that.”

I crippled down into a pit of confusion and sadness. Although this happened often, it always seemed to hit home hard as the months progressed. I arrived home and tossed myself into the soft comfort of my bed. Curled up into a ball, I tightened and released my grip on my white covers repeatedly, my body slowly dozing in and out of slumber as I watched small ripples in the outdoor pool shine upon my bedroom wall, the moonlight brightening it. Slowly the whispers began developing, and I allowed them. I needed to listen, they crowded my mind and maybe they were all right. So, there I sat in the silence. Jabbled words filled the room, they seemed to be everywhere. Woman, children, and men. I tensed at the words, trying to make out what they were telling me. In the background faint noises played, either from past songs the band and I had developed or ones that just kept coming. Threats or sarcastic remarks, occasional words remembered from my parents or enemies. They kept coming, intensifying by the second, getting louder and louder, until the point where... I snapped. I sat up and screamed into the darkness, pulling at my hair and kicking my feet, as if I were having some kind of a toddler tantrum. My breath quickened and my nose wrinkled, like how it always did when I got worked up. Slowly, and then all at once they stopped. My mind gathered in the silence, and I slammed back down into the pillow, turning my head into it, screaming once more until

“Uh, yeah! Sure!” When I knew I was l alone I ran all over town looking for the source of the snow. I finally found it at an abandoned warehouse just outside of town. I waited a couple of seconds before saying something but before I could, someone spoke.

As I awoke on the average school day ready to take on the world. I do my usual morning routine, but I feel as if something isn't right. As I head downstairs I see my mother sitting on the couch crying and my father comforting her. I ask my father “What’s wrong with mom?” and I get confronted

I sat on my bed with my arms wrapped tightly around my pillow swaying back and forth. My mom lightly knocked on my door and asked if she could come in. I tried to wipe away the stains left by my long stream of tears, but I felt my skin sting and eyes swell instead. She asked if I wanted to talk about it, but my response got stuck in my throat, so all I could do was shake my head and shove my head deep inside my pillow. Her bare feet smacked on the concrete as she made her way over to my bed. Her weight made an indent in the corner of my mattress as she sat down and laid a hand on my back.

comes back full force. My straight A’s start to drop to D’s and E’s, I quit all my after-school activities, stopped talking to everyone, and started to skip school almost everyday. I had always struggled with depression, but it had never been this bad before, I felt like I was drowning and she was pulling me down with her. I struggled a lot with my depression, I had to go to the emergency room twice during the school year for suicide attempts, I just wanted to give up on everything. During this time things kept getting worse and worse, tension kept on building between my mom and me and I still hadn't seen my dad. I remember that night so clearly as if it was yesterday. My mom and I had been arguing all day, We were in my room and kept on arguing

The sky was dark with only the street lights there to help me see. It was around 9:00 PM and I saw that the lights were still on inside my house. Now that meant that my parents were still up, so I knew they were going to be angry. I was hanging out with some friends and just didn’t want any of it from my parents. I opened the door and the second I stepped into the house, my mom started yelling.

I wanted to do to my homework, eat and go straight to bed. That was however not my mom's plan. She tried talking to me about my attitude. I wouldn't listen. I ran to my room and slammed the door. I began thinking about running away. When I made up my mind I began prying at the window with no success. My mother, catching me in the act, told me “ If you want to leave so bad then go.” I did just that. I ran out the door to a playground nearby. I sat on the swing and began crying.

Upon arriving to our apartment, my sister, brother, and I shared three hours of endless stories my mom had missed. Soon after, my parents decided it was time for bed. Having lost in a round of rock, paper, and scissors, I was forced to sleep on the floor with my parents while my sister and brother took over the bunk beds. Within a couple of hours into falling asleep, I woke up around 3’o clock from the floor vibrating with the bass notes from the bar downstairs. Scattered memories of my grandma suddenly rushed into my head: all the times I vented to her about how much I didn't want to go to piano lessons; the times I cried to her, limping back home with a bloody scraped knee; and the times we laughed together as my baby brother tried to talk to SpongeBob and Patrick through the TV. The last memory was the final straw, and I was ready to explode with the welled up tears from trying to seem like I had it all together. Still trying to hide my true emotions, I banged my head against the wooden leg of the bunk bed in an attempt to cover the true source of the teardrops. After hearing the loud thump, my parents immediately woke up asking me, “What’s wrong, what happened,” and going along with being the boastful kid I was, I responded, “I hit my head on the bed.” My mom replied, “Everything will be okay.” But everything was not okay because my grandma should have been next to me but instead, she was half way across the world.

When I was sixteen, I came home past eleven o’clock. I didn’t have a curfew. The dog woke up and started barking as soon as I pulled into the driveway. When I opened the front door my dad was waiting for me. He beat me with his belt while my mom and sister cried. Afterwards he asked me to forgive him. He said he was only scared. He said I could had been anywhere, with anyone. He said I could have been dead. I told him I was going to file for emancipation. He told me to get the fuck out of his house. I slept in the car that night and when the sun rose my dad was there, knocking on the driver’s side window. He had a plate of pancakes in one hand and twenty-bucks in the other. I rolled down the car window to accept the pancakes. My dad was crying. He said he hadn’t slept all night. He asked, “Why don’t you love me?” He said if I came inside he would give me the twenty-bucks and take me to a movie. I said, “I don’t love you because I am afraid of you.”

One night after all the trouble that my parents have been through they didn’t know what to do anymore, I remember as if It were yesterday. My mom sobbing to my dad that what has she done to deserve this, she told my dad how the doctor and everyone she knew called her an irresponsible mother who didn't care about the wellbeing of her kids. After hearing all of this something in me snap and made me change. I decide to change for the better and take the help from my parents. This is where my true mettle was put to the test I didn’t have any people or social skills, people made fun of how I looked called me stupid for failing some classes. It was hard for a kid of my age which was around 13or 14 to be getting told these words. I thought that I couldn’t do it anymore and was about to just go back to who I use to be but

There’s not one time in any of my memories were I have a good memory of my parents and me. All my memories of them are covered in the nightmares that I suffered. Before I was ten years old my dad would travel a lot for work, so I never saw him much. When he came back it wasn’t some romanticized welcome home. Instead it was filled with shouting, sometimes at my mother and sometimes at me. It seemed like my mother and I could never do anything right and my father was sure to point it out. If I came home with a B on my report card I would get yelled at. This yelling wasn’t just the kind where he was upset because he knew I could do better. No, this was him taking a whip to my self-esteem and destroying it. According to him, I was beyond stupid and worse than that I was worthless. This would happen every time he came home. Whether I had straight A’s, or not he would