Once Upon A Slap

(32) The Letter

Dear Mom and Dad-- Can I even call you that? No, I don't think so. I mean, parents are supposed to always be there for you through thick and thin. Parents are there when you turn double digits and they're there for you on your first day of middle school. Your parents are supposed to be there on your first period, explaining what exactly was happening.

Helena, you're not mom; you're just Helena. Oliver, you're not my dad; you're simply Oliver. Let's start over, shall we?

Dear Helena and Oliver,

Helena, I put your name first because I know how you always strive to be the best of them all. The queen. You're in a constant competition with everyone- even family. You know, I have that need too. That thirst to be the best- I have it. The only difference is that my hunger isn't self-destructive. Your hunger is, however. I mean, look at you. Actually, I haven't been able to do that for a few years now. I don't even remember what you look like. It's been five years. You are five years overdue. But I guess you're not the only one at fault. Everybody had a part to play in the destruction of everything I lived for. Now I have nothing. I could look death in the eye and crack a smile. On my deathbed, I would hope Orean would be waiting for me on the other side, wherever that is.

Truthfully, I'll probably be burning in the pits of Hell itself. But I'm fine with that too.

Helena, remember when we would bake cookies together? Not from scratch of course; you can't cook for the life of you. Although, I wouldn't know that because it seems as though you're starting your own cooking show. A lot has changed. Too much.

I heard you got a Botox lift from your Rolling Stones Magazine interview. I heard you also denied having a child. Do you know how difficult that was for me?  I must be quite the disappointment. But don't worry, you're just as disappointing. Sometimes I wonder why you didn't take me to Hollywood with you. Sometimes I understand why. I mean, I really can't do much other than rack in the A's.

I heard something quite interesting the other day. Apparently, according to my guidance counsellor, you've already filled out the paperwork claiming that I am no longer your responsibility. You'll stop sending money. You won't be responsible for any and all injuries. I will no longer be your burden. All you need is for my birthday to roll around in November and once it does, the deed will be done. I will be 18 and we will be done. I'll be a faded memory. I envy how detached you are. I truly do. Any and all ties we had will be torn apart. The bridge that I have been attempting to cross on my way to getting to you will be bulldozed. Just like that.

I feel conflicted. One part of me says it's for the better. I'll be fine. I'll get over it. Another part of me just doesn't want to get over it. Sometimes, I think that crossing the bridge would be easier, so long as you meet me halfway. But you would never do that. I don't know who to blame for the disaster that is this family. You? Oliver? Me? Me. It's always me, isn't it?

Oliver, remember when I would come home from school and you'd be lying on the couch, watching tv while trying to sleep? Remember how I would gently pick up your head and place it on my lap? Remember how I would give you a nice massage, soothing you to sleep? Remember when mom would be telling you to get up and do something productive and I would defend you? Those were the days.

Helena, Oliver, remember when my brother was still alive? Your son was still alive?When Orean was still alive? When your eldest child was still alive? He was only 12. I was only 8. He was my world and more. Those were the best 8 years of my life.

You left me at 9. At first, you said it was because of work. After pestering you, Helena, you told me it was because of the constant nightmares I got since my kidnapping and watching my brother die in front of me. Now I know the real reason. You hate me because I didn't save him. But you just don't understand. I couldn't have.