The Beginning of the End (Editing)

Twelve (Part III) : Mama

"I love you, Eleanor"

How pathetic of him, how unbelievably pathetic of him to have the audacity to tell me that he loves me. He doesn't. He doesn't. He doesn't know what he's on about, he doesn't love me. He shouldn't love me. He can't love me. He doesn't even know what love is or even what it means to love. He can't really think that knowing a person and spending time with a person is reason enough to love, he can't think that. No one knows what love is because everyone has a different definition of what it is.

That bastard knows well enough why I made him fucking promise, he fucking knows why. I can't wrap my thoughts around the reason why he's all of a sudden decided that now's the best  time to declare that he's smitten for me, that he's head over goddamn heels for me. I don't even know what put the idea into his head, what made him think that now was the right time to tell me. "I always have and I always will", pathetic. That's exactly what that sperm-donor of a dickhead said to my mother before he screwed her senseless and put her six-feet under the fucking ground.

I miss her, the her before him- I don't want to end up like her. Drug consumed and stripped of her sanity all thanks to that bastard. I hope god has put him in the fucking ground, I hope he's put further in the ground than six-feet, I hope he goes to hell and that the devil uses him as a goddamn foot rest.

My cheeks are drenched and I feel my breathing become irregular. Pull over, Eleanor. Just breathe. How can I breathe when the air is so thin?

Shakily, I pull over to the side of the road and rest my head in my hands, sobbing. Why is this happening?

Every weight of the world has suddenly been placed on my shoulders, and I alone am expected to carry it. Part of me doesn't know why I'm so worked up, while the other half is decayed by the lack of memories about a family. In a way, I guess its good to not have those memories because it was a broken family. Torn apart by that asshole and the drugs he forced into my goddamned mother.

But that other part of me, that other part of me is confused. But why is it confused? Is confused even the right word to use? That other part of me is questioning me, it's unsure. Maybe it's something else.

Confused, angry, frustrated. This only names a few of the feelings that I know I'm feeling. It's a joke, I'm a joke. I'm the biggest goddamn joke in the entirety of the universe. Just go home, Eleanor. Go home and drink away your problems like your mother did- you're already a spitting image of her as it is according to her sister.

Promptly, I switch the gear into drive and pull out of the bay I parked in moments ago. Immediately I find myself fumbling at the radio, turning the volume up as high as possible to the loudest song I can find. Maybe it'll block out my thoughts if I'm lucky.

Staring out the windshield I watch as headlights pass by in sets of two, sometimes four. Then theres all the trees and the forest. I watch as they pass by so fast, just like the person who loved me for so little time. Such a small amount of time.

I feel my mind drift off to other places, other times. A time where I actually knew my family,

I don't like to listen to Mama and Papa, but sometimes I just have to because they're so loud. Tonight it's louder than usual, though. I don't like the banging and the yelling, it scares me. Especially when I hear when Papa says that he will go to get his gun. I don't want that to happen, what if he hurts my Mama?

He's hurt her before, a lot of times. I saw it. When I did, he hurt me too. He hit me real bad, but he didn't hurt me like he hurt Mama. He leaves her black and blue and bleeding all over. I just get whipped with the belt. It hurts, but it's not like what Mama gets.

Oh no, someone's coming up the stairs, I hope it isn't Papa. Goodnight diary, friend. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
*

I'm really sad today, friend. I don't know what to say. Last night my Papa came and got my from my room. He sat me down in the kitchen chair in front of my Mama, he tied me there with a rope and his breath smelt like that drink he always drinks. He looked at me then looked at Mama. He told me that she was a whore, and that I shouldn't have been born. That my Mama should've swallowed- I don't know what that means.

Then he yelled at her again, then at me, then back at her. He had tape over our mouths too. Then he pulled out that pistol of his and put it to Mamas head. I tried to yell at him to stop, but I couldn't. I just had to sit there and watch as Mama cried, staring at me. I closed my eyes, I didn't wanna see Mama cry. But that's when I heard it, that bang that echoed in my head as it went through Mamas. When I opened my eyes Papa was staring at Mama, and Mama was bleeding bad but she wasn't moving. That's when I noticed that I was crying and I haven't stopped since. Thank god Aunt Hannah came over before Papa could hurt me. I think Papa would have. I love my Mama, and he killed her. He isn't my Papa anymore.

Goodnight diary, I won't be talking to you anymore. I don't think I can now. I'm sorry.

Through the window I catch a glimpse of her, of the Mama that I saw bleeding in that chair right across from me. But instead she isn't bleeding, she's smiling.

"Mama," I whisper before jolting the steering wheel to the side to miss her. Then it happens. My world is suddenly fading and I finally feel Mama embrace me after all of these years, even her smell.

"Come here, Ellie" She whispers as my world slowly, surely, fades to darkness.