lowkey killing myself

A Journey To The Past

Aurora used to think of her home as a place where sunlight spilled into every room, where laughter echoed off the walls and everything felt warm and safe. Her father's laughter had always been the loudest—big and bright, filling every quiet corner of the house. He was the one who made everyone feel safe, strong enough to carry all their worries so they never had to.

She could still remember how he'd pick her up, spinning her in circles until she'd collapse into his arms, dizzy and breathless with joy. His eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled at her, and she'd feel like the most loved person in the world.

Then, one night, he was gone.

Aurora was too young to understand why. All she knew was that her father had left for something important, something her mother never explained. The days that followed were a blur of hushed voices and somber faces, neighbors coming by to check on them, the endless sound of her mother's stifled crying behind closed doors.

At first, Martha had seemed like a ghost, drifting from room to room in a daze. She wouldn't look at Aurora or speak to her for days on end, and Aurora was afraid to ask why. She clung to her siblings, Oliver and Maisie, doing her best to keep them quiet, to make things easier for their mother.

But as the months passed, Martha changed. Grief hardened into something sharper, something darker. She began to look at Aurora with a strange coldness, her gaze heavy with something that felt almost like anger.

"Aurora, don't just stand there," her mother snapped one afternoon, her voice harsher than Aurora had ever heard. "Pick up your brother's toys. Do something useful."

Aurora flinched, the harsh tone slicing through her. She did as she was told, her small hands trembling as she gathered Oliver's toys, her mind racing to understand what she'd done wrong. In the past, her mother had always been gentle, patient. But now, there was a constant edge to her voice, a simmering resentment Aurora didn't know how to appease.

The anger only grew with time. Small things set Martha off—whispers, laughter, the sound of children playing. Aurora learned to tread carefully, to keep her voice low and her movements soft, always watching her mother's face for signs of a storm.

One night, she found the courage to ask.

"Mom?" she whispered, standing in the doorway to her mother's room. Martha sat at the edge of her bed, her back hunched, hands pressed to her temples. "What happened to Dad?"

Her mother looked up, her face hollow, shadows clinging to the hollows under her eyes. For a long moment, she said nothing, her gaze locked onto Aurora as if seeing her for the first time. Then, something shifted in her expression, a flicker of bitterness that sent a chill down Aurora's spine.

"Do you really want to know?" Martha's voice was cold, her words laced with something sharp. "He died because of you."

Aurora's breath caught, a tight knot forming in her throat as she stared at her mother., unable to speak, a knot of fear and confusion tightening in her chest. "But... how?"

"You're too young to understand." Martha looked away, her voice cracking. "But he's gone because of you. Because he tried to protect you."

The weight of those words settled heavily over Aurora, a shadow that would never fully lift. She wanted to ask more, to beg her mother for an explanation, but the look on Martha's face kept her silent. A part of her was terrified of what the full truth might be.

After that, everything changed. Martha's anger grew more unpredictable, flaring up over the smallest things, and Aurora took it upon herself to shield her siblings from it. She became their protector, silently enduring her mother's anger, carrying the weight of her words alone.

It started slowly, at first—a single glass of wine at the end of the day. Aurora remembered the faint clink of glass against the kitchen table, the low sound of her mother pouring from a bottle that she'd kept hidden in the cupboard. In those early days after her father's death, Martha would sit alone in the dim light of the kitchen, staring into her glass as if it held answers.

Aurora hadn't thought much of it back then. She didn't understand that her mother was drinking to numb herself, to quiet the ache that had taken root in her heart. All Aurora knew was that her mother was different, quieter, her movements slower, her gaze distant. She would walk around the house as if she didn't see any of them, as if she were lost in some world where they didn't exist.

But over time, the single glass of wine became two, then three. The bottle, once hidden, began appearing on the counter, then on the coffee table in the living room, where it would stay even through the next day. Aurora would sometimes find empty bottles in the trash, scattered among the remains of takeout containers and old papers. She started to notice the faint smell of alcohol lingering on her mother's breath, her words slurred, her voice sharper and harsher than before.

Soon, Martha was drinking in the mornings too, barely waiting until they were off to school. Aurora would see the bottles in the kitchen, the half-empty glasses left out, a constant reminder that her mother was slipping further and further away.

One evening, when Oliver was only six, he'd come running to Aurora, his eyes wide and frightened. "Mom's acting weird again," he'd whispered, clinging to her shirt. "She's... she's talking to herself."

Aurora had taken his hand, guiding him and Maisie back to their room, telling them to stay there. She'd gone to the living room alone, her heart pounding, knowing she was the one who would have to confront their mother, even if she didn't know how.

Martha was slumped on the couch, a half-empty bottle clutched in her hand, her eyes glazed and unfocused. She was muttering to herself, her words incoherent, her voice thick with the effects of too much alcohol. Aurora had stood in the doorway, her throat tight, not knowing whether to approach or retreat.

"Mom?" she'd whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. "Are you okay?"

Martha had looked up then, her gaze locking onto Aurora with a strange intensity. For a moment, she seemed to recognize her daughter, her eyes softening just slightly. But then her expression hardened, her mouth twisting into a bitter smile.

"Do you know what you cost me?" she'd said, her words slurred, her voice low and unsteady. "You and your brother and sister... all you do is take and take."

Aurora had stood frozen, the words cutting into her, too shocked to respond. Her mother's face was unfamiliar in that moment, her features twisted with a bitterness Aurora didn't understand.

"Your father... he left because of you. If it weren't for you, he might still be here," Martha continued, her voice breaking, but her grip on the bottle never wavered.

The accusation lingered in the air, settling over Aurora like a heavy weight. She wanted to argue, to tell her mother that none of this was her fault, that she'd loved her father as much as any of them. But her mother's gaze was hard, unyielding, and Aurora knew that nothing she said would change her mind.

After that night, her mother's drinking only got worse. Martha began disappearing for hours at a time, leaving the kids to fend for themselves. Aurora started getting up early to make breakfast for Oliver and Maisie, to pack their lunches, to make sure they got to school on time. She took on the role her mother had abandoned, becoming their protector, their caretaker.

The once gentle woman who used to read to them at night was gone, replaced by someone Aurora barely recognized. Martha would stumble through the house, her words sharp and cutting, her temper flaring at the smallest things. The smell of alcohol clung to her clothes, and Aurora learned to brace herself for the outbursts, to keep her siblings away when she sensed her mother was in one of her moods.

Oliver and Maisie became quieter, their laughter fading as they learned to tiptoe around their mother, as they learned that silence was safer. Aurora watched as their bright, innocent smiles dulled, replaced by the same wary look she'd grown accustomed to seeing in the mirror.