Am I Crazy?

You made it bearable

Jisung

"Mom no!" I yelled as she was trying to shield me from my father. I watched as he shoved her aside making her fall backwards into the wall. "Stop it! He's only a child, let me clean up after him." My mother cried.

"He's old enough to understand how to clean up after messes he makes. This his is punishment." My father spat hitting me on the back with a baseball bat.

I cowered onto the floor curled up in a ball and enduring the beating, my tears were making my eyes blurry, but I felt my mother's arms around me. "I said stop it!" She cried out.

The next thing I knew my father was screaming and yelling "NO! You stupid bitch why did you have to get in the way."

My mother sagged to the floor, there was no more sound, no more crying. I looked over at my mother who was laying lifeless on the floor.

There was so much blood...

I immediately got up and scurried to the other side of the room, and I watched my father throw the bat to the side.

"Mom! Mommy!" I cried.

My father walked over to me and slapped me, the sound echoing in the room. "This is your fucking fault! You did this. Your mother is dead because of you. Just you remember that."

I jolted awake, I could feel sweat running down my face and my breathing was ragged. It was as if it happened yesterday, the night so vivid in my mind. Seeing my mother's still body on the ground, the blood pooling around her and her eyes showed fear.

Maybe it was my fault, she had protected me after all.

Did I really kill my mother?

These were the thoughts that ran on a loop inside my head and believe it or not my father came up with the ridiculous lie of being robbed in our own home. Apparently the "intruder" was trying to steal my father's money and he was trying to fight back, trying to defend his family when the intruder had grabbed the bat and swung at us only hitting my mother in the head.

The police bought the whole fucking thing.

The only time my father ever showed any concern or care towards me was when he had to pretend, when he had to put up a good front.

I had no one to help me, no one to save me.

After that night I couldn't eat or sleep, I got nightmares every time I closed my eyes, I always saw my mom lying there covered in blood.

My father couldn't handle me at that point, funny enough he was going through something I guess you could say. He was mourning her in his own messed up way. Whether he truly loved her I'll never know.

I was only 12 and after a week or so my father admitted me into an institution and paid for a therapist. I had no idea what was going on, I was scared and confused.

Every night I woke up screaming and half the time they had to sedate me, I wasn't eating and trying to sleep was of no use. I was pretty much drugged out of my mind with all the pills and shit they were giving me. As far as I knew my father had told them to keep me drugged, to keep me stable and calm.

A few months in and I was losing my shit, this place wasn't meant for me. I know I wasn't crazy; I watched my mother die in front of me. How else am I supposed to act?

Should I act like nothing ever happened and move on with my life?

My therapist told me that I was being irrational and trying to gain attention, that I needed to think about what my father lost. He lost his wife, the love of his life and the mother of his son and that he was going through a much tougher time.

Fuck me, right?

The only thing that made this place bearable was the little blonde-haired boy that I met a few months after being locked up in this god forsaken place.

He was the same age as me and was in a similar situation that I was in. I can barely remember him, apparently, I wasn't good company to keep. His parents thought I was a fucking loose cannon, and they didn't want him near me.

He always found his way to me; we always found a way to be together. Sometimes we would share snacks and play games in the rec room. The staff was to keep an eye on us, but we had one very good nurse who made it his mission to keep us together.

And we were grateful for it, for him.

The day I turned 14 was the day he left, were to celebrate my birthday together and eat cake together. His parents took him out, I guess he was recovering well enough they didn't see the need to keep him there any longer.

I didn't even get to say goodbye.

All I remember is his name, Felix.