ALIVE ANGELS ; lana del rey

➵ one, forgive and forget

*:·ﾟ✧ CHAPTER ONE. forgive & forget

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THE DOOR SLAMS behind me as the wind brushes against my back.

I hear echoes of muffled voices against the wooden door while I fumble into a cold, heavy comforter. Tears spill out of my eyes like a forever-running faucet; I try to muffle my gasps for air by stuffing my head against my pillow, but it doesn't work out.

I messily saunter my way into my closet, filled with clothes. Even though the wooden ground is unnoticeable, it ends up being beneficial. More material to cushion, warp, and quiet my entire being. Screaming, yelling, shrieking escaped from outside through the creaks in the door.

"It's not my fault—" I think to myself.

"...at least I don't think so."

"Forgive and forget" has been my mantra for most of the middle school, and I hated the fact that I would forgive, forgive, and forgive some more. Still, I would never find myself forgetting. But, unfortunately, it's just how I am; it's always been that way, so why should I bother changing?

It's quite the opposite with my mom, though. For her, "forgive and forget" doesn't apply to anyone who isn't her.

"Don't forgive, don't forget, and definitely do not do both," she told me constantly in the sixth grade.

Just getting into middle school was one of the worst experiences of my life, and now, it's all rushing back to me, one awful, horrible, and terrible memory after the other.

But, I've learned to suppress and disguise how I feel about my parents around others because sometimes my "tone is off" or I'm being "disrespectful." It doesn't phase me, though; I know how I feel is normal, and there's absolutely nothing that can make a 'mental switch' in my mind. At least, nothing I know of.

So, I bumble through my bedroom, accidentally ensuring that I hit every surface imaginable. Stumbling and staggering; eventually, I land on solid ground. After around fifteen minutes of lifelessly lying on my floor, I begin to regain a semi-stable mindset. But I still can't go towards my door.

Although the banging, crying, and scolding have calmed down from the state that it was an hour ago, mentally, nothing for me has changed.

Finally, distracting myself, I decided to shuffle through my cluttered drawers to enter a world of the past rather than the way things are now.

A flood of sealed shut envelopes fill the space, and the labels written on them seem to be collections of song lyrics that I can't remember.

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Shuffling through the cluster, some songs race back to my memory after years of being lost.

The memories of the seventh-grade field trips, Art Deco gallery sculptures, and nighttime amusement park pictures flood my brain.

I ignore the associated memories attached to these pictures involving my parents. It's difficult, though, when every captured memory on these Polaroids can be linked to its unpleasant counterpart.

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The seventh-grade Chemtrails Country Club field trip: my dad refused to drive me home when the field trip was over because celebrating a football game with alcohol and drinking games at the bar was more vital.

I walked in the rain that night, and I got lost because we recently moved here, so the cops had to pick me up and drive me home instead of my dad.

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Art Deco gallery walks in Honeymoon Park: my friends convinced me to stay after the walk was finished, occasionally crossing the street to the tennis court a few times. Everything was spray-painted bright red when we returned from the gallery after leaving. The sculptures, paintings, and even the grass were covered.

I walked home, and my mom noticed that my sweater had a red stain from the spray paint. So she ended up driving to the park after that.

Seeing the vandalized artwork, she blamed all the damage on me because of the false evidence on my sweater. I tried to explain that I tripped on the grass, but she wouldn't listen to anything I said.

So much for not forgiving or forgetting.

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National Anthem Amusement Park: I planned this hangout with my cousins, who happened to be in town for the first time in three years; after riding on Ferris wheels and playing pop-up games, my dad drove me home for the first time in forever with my mom in the passenger seat.

Although he was late, I remember my dad almost not even being there without my mom's reminder to pick me up. I felt tired listening to my mom's scolding, my eyelids were sagging, and I slouched in the back seat the entire drive home.

Apparently, I snuck out of the house to secretly run to National Anthem––even though it's very far––with my cousins. My mom denied every single statement I made contradicting her, and she found a way to turn everything I mentioned to her back onto me again.

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I push the drawer back into its place, returning the half-opened envelopes.

My eyes dart to my window, and the sky is jet-black, dotted with white specks of stars.

The hallways are the quietest they've ever been, and the only light coming from the outside is the moon and the scattered street lights lining the pavement.

Countess painful memories of my parents fill my mind as if it's the only thing I'm capable of thinking about.

I open the drawer and stuff all the envelopes into my backpack.

Grabbing, shoving, zipping.

Grabbing, shoving, zipping.

Grabbing, shoving, zipping.

I close the final pouch of my bag as an ephemeral epiphany takes over my brain. Loving my parents is hard, but staying is harder. I sink into thousands of rushing thoughts that all lead to one conclusion.

"Maybe I could meet you in another life," I tell myself as if I'm speaking to anyone who's ever known me.

I can't forgive, and I can't forget anymore

I'm leaving.

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