Parable

1:4 mom...

I was sitting in my room crying. Again, I ask; why was I crying?

Well, it is quite the doozy from here till there, while I was sitting in the cave, I thought of this in an instant, kind of like a flash memory that makes everything transmit instantly. I never understood this ability, until I was able to muster the ability to its full potential that is. I wish I could transmit the whole sequence of memories into my brain, but doing that was taxing on it, so I decided to remember it quickly and vividly; as if it happened yesterday, this way, I could actually get more accurate portrayals of memories that I have; this way, I could be more certain of what I think and dream, of what I see and feel, of what I hear and smell, and of what feeling I get in my mouth after I review one of my memories. It could either be sour (like the bullies and my angsty attitude), or it could be sweet (like when we won over those bullies the first time and me and Hock shared an intimate stare (I don't really know why I find that to be weirdly sweet, maybe I was a homosexual)). This is me right after I came home to my house, and this is how vividly I remember everything:

I walked inside the house and I was feeling a little woozy after the extreme amount of shouting and screaming that I did so I can escape the grips of the bullies that tried to snatch me up and beat me. It was a hectic feeling of looking at everything around you in three dimensions or more. That takes you from being a sane normal being, into an insane nuisance that terrorizes everything around it.

I look to my side to see my dad, who is still drunk, watching TV on in the Livingroom sofa while looking paler than ever. I think of the times where I used to fear him, but now he is more pathetic than anything. I hate my father for his mischievous ways. The reason he is sad is not because of anything other than the girl he was dating is now rejecting him because she realized that he was cheating on my mother. He is a stepfather as well, my real dad died when I was in my mother's womb; a car accident is what caused in death. My brother was devastated at the time and he couldn't handle my father's loss that well, but he ended up recuperating.

Since my mother was a beautiful woman, she managed a date with a deceiver and a manipulator. She didn't realize I was getting beaten up by the bastard every single day of my life. He'd get pissed off because of some irrational thing that irritates him beyond belief, he blames us for it, then proceeds to run across the room with his anger shifting rapidly and moodily. He begins to beat us every time, which is why I genuinely hate him with all my heart.

My mother...what I would do to see her in a better condition, she had cancer, she still does, she still suffers, and I am trying my hardest to see her standing on her two feet. Imagine choking on forty pills as a remedy for a disease that just might have a chance of making you recuperate, imagine fighting for your life for a chance to live. I think my mom's condition wasn't helped by the fact that we had a deadbeat sitting in our house as a freeloader. Some people are too pure for others, and I think if my mom realized her husband was a complete ne'er-do-well, she'd do away with him, make him lose custody of us with all her power, and have her dying wish to get rid of a bastard like him.

I walk into the darkly lit house and I go upstairs to put my school bag and my items back in my room. I enter my room to see this blue hue of darkness looming around it, coloring the atmosphere of it all with the least pleasant air I've ever breathed. I open the door and I close it behind me, I start to get tired eyes and I think to myself: if it all were better than this miserable world, it would be great to live a normal person's life, it'd be great if she hadn't married this lunatic; it'd be great if I had the power to kill the bastard. I would be exempt from all issues in my life, I would be better off without my thoughts circulating with this blood ridden idea. It'd be better if her cells reproduced normally if her lungs hadn't given out at the ripe age of forty-two.