Let Me Go

Chapter 2 - Bitter

GRACE

I hadn’t had a drink in a while. I felt jumpy and irritable. Mum’s moans echoed through the house miserably. “Pathetic,” I scolded under my breath.  This had become a regular hobby for mum; every night she would make herself a cup of black coffee accompanied by a couple of happy pills, curl up on her bed, put some stupid trash on her T.V, max it up to full volume and sob woefully into her pillow.  

This was why I hated marriage. Why on earth would anyone want to devote their whole life to someone else? It’s obviously going to end with tragic consequences. People who go around claiming their marriage is great either haven’t been married very long or they are lying because everyone knows that one way or another, marriage is generally shit.

It just ruins people; not only the happy couple themselves, but everyone else involved to. Why should I suffer when my dad gets bored of my mum and decides to toy around with his secretary? I know, classy!

I couldn’t think about dad without wanting to throw up. He disgusted me. He was a deceitful liar, a selfish prick and if he ever got ran over by a bus, I would spend the rest of my days snogging the driver.

Jesus I needed a drink! I headed for the stairs, not bothering to be quiet. My mum was fully aware that I drunk and apart from one time when she faintly pleaded me; “Please don’t do that,” she didn’t seem to care. I could pretty much do what I wanted since dad left. Suppose that’s one thing I could thank him for! For mum, this was due three reasons. One: she felt guilty; two: she didn’t have the energy to argue anymore; and three: she was past caring.

Sometimes I forgot that I was still 14. So much had happened in a year; I was an alien to my 13 year old self, both physically and mentally. My curly, auburn locks were now replaced by dull, black strands of lifeless hair; brittle and dry: A lost cause against the damage of too much dye and the scorch of my straighteners. My freckles had gradually faded over time as I hardly left the house and the ones that survived were hidden beneath my thick, chalky foundation. Black pencil outlined by eyes and clumpy mascara coated my eyelashes. I had also gained several piercings. A number of studs and spikes decorate both my ears; I had also inherited a nose stud, a tongue piecing and a belly button ring. My motive: to piss off my mother. And it worked, but ironically not as well as my tattoo, that unintentionally won the best reaction. On the inside of my right wrist I now had the Chinese symbol for freedom. Pretty gay, I know but I was liquored at the time and not entirely sure how I managed to acquire it.

I was with Jess, but she wasn’t exactly sober. Jess was the closest thing I had to a friend: meaning we skipped school together; we helped each other nick booze and fags from the liquor store (which involved me flirting with the guy on the till while she grabbed the gear); I covered for her when her parents wouldn’t let her out and she supplied me with cheap weed.

But we never really talked. Obviously we had conversations but it was just words, not talking. There was no feeling or emotion, no opinions or views; Just words.  I hadn’t talked to someone since…