𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫? - 𝐓𝐌𝐑 𝐀𝐔, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

034 - childhoods suck

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When I was younger—just ten years old—I had only had a hallucination once. This was my second time. They sucked both times.

And they were both about the shadow I had seen years before.

They were both about the terrifying sight of my mother's—barely alive—body.

They were both about my father, and how I watched him get shot. By his wife.

My breathing was heavy, I was violently shaking, and tears were streaming down my face, staining my skin. Nobody came to ask if I was okay. I felt alone.

I was alone. Mentally. Physically, I had my psychotic mother. I didn't want her. I wanted my father.

But she killed him.

I remembered the sight of a knife in my mother's body. I asked if she was okay, she said to call the police. I didn't.

She told me someone broke in, and that's when I had the first hallucination. The shadow stabbed my mother.

But, unfortunately, she lived. I didn't want to be rude, but I would've rather lived without her. But, of course, nothing went my way.

"Whitley," my mother called from downstairs. At the sound of her voice, I groaned.

"What?" I called back.

And, like usual, she didn't answer, forcing me to get up from my bed and go downstairs.

I went downstairs, and when I reached her, she had a huge smile plastered on her face.

She didn't deserve to be happy.

"What?" I asked, my tone more snappy than intended.

"Lose that attitude, Whitley Reid," my mother ordered, though her smile stayed in place.

I looked down, shaking my head. "Sorry. What do you need, Mum?"

Her gaze burned holes through my head, and for a second her expression twitched, and her smile looked evil.

She was evil.

"Well," she began. "Since the piano thing didn't work out, I've signed you up for swimming!"

"Why?" I asked blankly.

"To train for the Olympics, of course!"

Of course it was to train for the Olympics. I never got to do anything for fun. She just wanted something to be proud of, because clearly I wasn't enough if I was just myself.

Dad would've been proud of me.

"Wow, so cool," I said sarcastically. And I got slapped.

"Go to your room," my mother scolded, pointing to the stairs. "Now!"

"Okay." I shrugged, rushing upstairs as fast as I could.

As soon as I was alone, I broke down in tears.

**

First swimming lesson, yay!

I was so excited. Clearly. The frown planted on my face showed everyone how happy I was to be forced into things I didn't like. Well, I liked swimming. Just not for competitions.

And the Olympics was the biggest competition in the world.

"Look, there's another girl." A boy pointed at me, snickering to his friend. "I bet she's going to suck."

"We'll win even if we go easy on her," the other one added, laughing.

I looked down in embarrassment, my cheeks turning bright red.

I gripped tighter onto my swimwear; if I dropped it, I would have been embarrassed for life!

And that day I swam better than ever before.

But I was still the worst.

**

I sat on the porch, the wood cold beneath me, knees tucked to my chest. My mind drifted back to that night. The night everything changed. The first time.

My mother's voice had been steady—eerily calm—as she spoke. My father hadn't seen it coming, but I had. I'd seen the shift in her, the way her eyes had darkened, the anger that had been boiling up for so long. All because she was jealous? All because he treated me better? I was only five, I didn't know it would end like that!

I could still hear the gunshot, feel the way the world seemed to shatter in that instant. It shattered like the glass the year later. Both times, my life felt ruined. I felt petrified. I felt lost. I was lost.

My father stood there, helpless, and my mother pulled the trigger as easily as if she were flicking off a light switch. How? I never understood. I loved him. I didn't get how someone could take another's life so easily. Yet it happened in front of me.

He fell, collapsing to the ground before me. His blood, dark and thick, stained the floor. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But my legs were rooted in place, my throat closing in on itself. All I could do was watch. Cry. My chest tightened as I tried to take a breath that wouldn't come.

Ever since both that night and the other, panic attacks had taken over my life. The flashbacks would start, and then the breathlessness would follow, like I was being suffocated by the memory itself.

I never talked about it, though. I barely even talked. No one would understand the terror of watching your father get shot by your own mother. No one would understand the terror of seeing a knife in your mother's limp body. No one would understand. And no one did. Not even my own mother.

I had tried to move on. I had tried to forget. But how do you forget something like that? How do you erase the image of your mother pulling the trigger, the coldness in her eyes, the way she didn't even hesitate? How do you erase the memory of seeing the shadow, not telling anyone, and seeing the sight of your choices?

You don't.

You can't.

After that I was broken, yet I was only a child.

I couldn't deal with everything piling up in my chest.

I couldn't deal with everything that happened.

I couldn't deal with everything I had seen.

I couldn't deal with anything.

So I went silent.

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