A Life Foretold

Chapter 7: It's a World of Muck

5333 words.

"My mother found me lying in the snow later that night in a small puddle of blood. Apparently, I was headed in the correct direction, but I grew too sore to move. I was out cold for approximately two hours..."

Alateen: a recovery group for adolescents with guardians who are or were alcoholics. My grandmother figured it'd be a place for me to not feel alone, a place where other kids had similar experiences, but in truth, I never felt more alone. My life was far from the worst, but it was damaging, by all means. These kids--these kids around me weren't damaged, and their parents were the ones taking them to these meetings, the alcoholics themselves. Their parents identified they had a problem; my father didn't. There's no use blaming a substance abuser if they never blame themself-- if they never even realize they have a problem. So who do you blame? The substance? Humanity? No. You blame yourself.

"That's what alcoholism does," The blonde woman, the individual leading the meeting, had said.

I laughed behind gritted teeth, blown out eyes focused maniacally on the disgusting tile floor, "Alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, blame the alcohol. Sure, this situation was caused by a drink, but that wasn't the traumatizing part." My voice escalated in volume, "Perfectly sober people left me behind. Oh, you're probably thinking: those were three idiots. Even family discards the insane. That was merely the first time, but I still stupidly called for help."

Yet even here, the one place that's purpose was to not feel like you lost your mind, I felt like I lost my mind.

Why am I even explaining this when I know they'll never understand? To pass time, maybe? Perhaps I strived to find some sort of relief that someone else will know the whole story. Perhaps, this was my final call for help.

I blinked open my eyes to a waking nightmare. A warm, damp rag rested on my forehead under my bangs, and a cozy blanket wrapped securely around my limp body. Downstairs, I heard doors slamming and Father groaning and yelling intelligible words. I winced as glassware shattered. Glancing to the right side of the condo's bedroom, Mother clenched the bedsheets. Thank the lord Alluka was asleep.

"Are you awake, Kil?"

"...Yeah."

Suddenly, Father slammed a kitchen cabinet shut, causing me and Mom to flinch again. "Does he know we're up here?" I whispered.

"...I don't think he remembers there's an upstairs," my mother whispered back.

The rest of the night we waited in fear for him to remember the stairway to our bedroom, we watched in disgust as Father passed out on the toilet, and we over and over again told ourselves, 'It'll get better,' when things never do.

Five more days of this so-called-vacation, I told myself. Father is going to act like nothing happened, same with Mom, but I wondered if I could do the same. He'll notice the raging bruise under my chin, he'll know what happened, but he will say it's on me for falling so much while snowboarding. He'll notice the limp in my walking, he'll know what happened, but he will joke, 'did you hook up with the wrong sex or something?' Lastly, he'll notice my hard stare, he'll know what happened, but he will blame it on something else, and I'll simply say, 'I will never forget,' just so he couldn't, either.

But what's the point in blaming someone who doesn't blame themself? There isn't one.

So you blame yourself.

Morning is lots of things. It's a feeling of refreshment, a new start. It can be a welcome to a day of promised laziness under the cozy rise of the sun, but that next morning was nothing but a time on the clock. Purple circles discolored under my eyes and a red glaze pierced my irises. My movements were slow as I ambled downstairs. Alluka wrestled with Dad, Mom made breakfast, and I only stared in horror. Is this simply normal now? I guess so.