Unveiled - [H.S]

08

November 27, 2023
Thirteen weeks pregnant...

What am I thankful for?

That's a difficult question to answer. Most of my life was a tragedy—a horrific murder scene that I tried to conceal behind the glitz and glamor of my career. Given that I never had an example of true love and never once held the feeling in my hands, I thought it only logical that I make it my life's goal to bring others together.

Sometimes I wonder if it's the love found in romantic unions or if I care more about the kids they may bring into the world. I suppose I don't want other kids to grow up like I did, or worse. I can't look back on memories of my childhood and remember having Thanksgiving.

It was always just another day for me.

My wrist flicks with every movement of my hand as the ink bleeds along the paper. Journaling isn't a natural occurrence for me, but it's something I've done from time to time. Since I have no one to talk to about the trauma my mother put me through, it's the best way to let out my emotions.

Annual holidays have never been a big deal to me because I never got the opportunity to celebrate them. From a young age, my mom exposed the truth about Santa Claus, spewing that she hated society for creating something she'd have to bear the weight of on her shoulders. So, unlike the kids at my school, I never got anything, nor did she ever try to make me feel loved.

On my birthdays, she'd gift me with lighters each year until I turned eighteen. Then, she upped her game. She handed me a pack of cigarettes, saying, "For when life gets too hard."

I can't say I was surprised. It was her form of relief for tough times. She'd burn it all away, one cigarette at a time.

My head piles up with more and more thoughts, every one of them translated onto the paper ahead of me.

So, what am I thankful for? I guess I'm thankful that I survived. That despite everything, I didn't turn out like her and that my children won't have a childhood like I did.

As I finish up, my phone dings with a text message.

Harry
I'm bringing home lunch, any food allergies?

Me
Okay. And no food allergies, all good here.

I toss my journal in the drawer of my bedside table and climb out of bed, deciding on a shower to pass time. The floor is cool beneath my feet as I pad across the room, the noon light casting a bright glow through the curtains.

In the bathroom, I turn on the faucet, letting the water heat up as I undress. Steam begins to fill the small space, curling around me like a warm embrace. Stepping into the shower, I sigh as the hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the remnants of tiredness and lingering thoughts.