Withering You

The Book.

I'm avoiding Sebastian on full force. To be precise I'm even avoiding life. I just want to shout on everyone's face. Especially Stella's. God, I feel like I'm writing more about her than me. She is being a pain though.

Mom's getting sicker, there was a lot of blood in the bathroom today. She was crying. I was crying. Dad was lost, trying to calm both of us down. Mom wasn't able to clean herself up. Dad and I had helped her to get into bed. I try not to think of her but it's inevitable. Death, I mean. I love her so much though I never had the ability to channel that love out as action. I would stand awkwardly by her side not knowing what to do. It's painful to watch her. I'm not supposed to be taking care of her, it should be the other way round. When I return back home there's no food on the table. There's nothing that would resemble what we had before. I'm not being ungrateful here. I just don't like this. It hurts to look at her without tears in my eyes. She has stopped trying too. Nothing can make her smile anymore. She has let her disease consume her. She should have tried at least for me.

Life is just an annoying fuck. I tried staying home today with an excuse to look after her but she wanted me to go. She has a high hope for me, that one day I would make her proud. My throat is tightening even as I write now. I'm going to fail her. I don't even know if she will make it to my graduation.

I want to die. I really want to just die. I can't have a life without her. And this life is not worth living anyway. I should woman up. I should stop fussing. The grass is greener on the other side, so they say. This problem is nothing. I'm going to search in Google for summaries of Othello. Change a few words here and there to brush off the work as mine. Sebastian can suck up on that. Hereafter I'm not going to pay a cent to him.

Early in the morning I went into the office to inform them that I won't be writing articles anymore. I would submit my last three articles I had signed up for and would be done with it. I had asked for more time though. A month to be precise. I had slipped in an excuse of mom being sick. They sucked it up and patted me on my shoulder.

The time is enough for me to find sites that would write for money. Somewhere cheap. We are on a tight budget this year. Mom's medicines are expensive. I will be helping dad at the shop after school. Dad had already asked the part time worker to look for another job. He said he doesn't have enough to pay the worker. It upsets me. I want to help him but I'm useless. All I fucking know is to fake writings as mine. God, if I really knew how to write, I could have landed a neat job online. I don't know. I'm fucking stupid.

I'm at least helping dad. Going back home to look at mom is torture. The worst is the fear that it would be the last time I see her alive. When she is sleeping, which she does most of the time, I stand by the door to check if she is alive. She looks dead while she sleeps with her frail body. My heart will soar with every passing second. I would only relax when I see her stirring in her sleep. Only then will I move away from her door.