Countdown To Love

Stockholm Syndrome

(A/N:) Wow it's been a long time since I've updated. Sorry about that, I was taking a break from Wattpad to write some of my more professional novels. BUT I'M BACK!!!

The walls in my house are paper thin. Naturally, this makes it easy for me to hear Mother coming up the stairs, cursing and usually with a bottle in hand. I quickly shove my journal in the bottom drawer of my dresser and slam it closed just as Mother comes in. I was right in my prediction that, as usual, she had been drinking. I grab a pen and start to draw on my hand in order to look busy. I try to ignore the string of obscenities streaming from her mouth as she fumbles with the door lock.

I sigh and prepare myself for the worst. When you've lived with Mother as long as I have, you learn that when she locks the door, nothing good ever happens. When she finally gets it, she turns back to me, rage filling her hazy blue eyes.

"How could you?' she asks, accusation lacing her soberly honey sweet voice.

"H-how could I what, Mommy?" I respond, voice quivering in fear.

"Cut the 'mommy' bull. You know full well that ain't gonna cut it, you ungrateful excuse of a daughter." The words sting and she knows it. "Don't act all innocent, you know what you did."

"I'm sorry, Mother. I won't do it again, I swear," I lie. I know by now to not push her when she's drunk and angry.

She waves a hand at me, as if to dismiss my thoughts. "Doesn't matter. You did it, and now you're gonna pay."

She raises her now empty bottle and blindly hits me with it, over and over and over again. I try to muffle my cries, but a few escape, for which she hits me harder. Choking back sobs, I can only hope I have enough concealer left to cover the bruises that will no doubt be there in the morning.

I hadn't anticipated how angry she truly was, for Mother seemed to not comprehend what she was doing. Throwing down the bottle, she used her bare hands to throw me against the wall and choke me. Her nails dug into my skin as she whispered gibberish under her breath.

At this point, I fear I would've died if Mother hadn't heard the door opening and slamming shut. Gasping for breath, I fell to the floor and searched with blurred vision under my bed for a small handgun that I had always considered self defense. As much as I am tempted to shoot the woman who claims she loves me, I can't bring myself to do it, and instead prepare myself to fatally injure the intruder. Mother has the sole key to our house, and I am only allowed out for school. She lets me in when I come home, and she almost never leaves the house.

I run downstairs as quietly as possible, and hold the gun up. I follow the steps my father taught me on how to ready a gun. However useful this is, I can never forgive him. The coward left this family without even telling me he was going to leave. With him went everything I ever cared about.  The day after he left, Mom cried and didn't stop for a week. When she did stop the constant flow of tears, she started abusing my sister worse than she ever had. Two months after Dad left, we had a funeral for my eleven year old baby sister.

So with Dad left everything I ever wanted. My sister, the chance at a normal life, or a good family, even just to be loved.

I could hear Mother yelling at whoever had broken in, and then I heard a thud. In this state, I wouldn't be surprised if she was able to knock a fully armed person to the ground. However, I knew it was more likely for her to be the one out cold, either from the alcohol or the intruder.

I heard heavy steps coming towards the staircase. My breath quickened and my grip tightened as I placed my finger slowly on the trigger.

The last thing I saw before I was shot was a man holding a gun in one hand and my diary in the other.