Writing Partner
I was fourteen years of age when I first discovered my love for books- and worse, my love for writing. Although my family and I were living in a rented-out apartment and were swimming chin-deep in debt, my mom was still able to manage sending me away for three weeks to this summer camp that would supposedly improve my writing skills.
Now, this may seem impossible since my dad couldn’t carry a stable job and my mom worked during the day as a non-paid intern In some large, ugly building downtown and at night as a bartender, but I guess there were perks to being down-right poor. I mean, it’s not like I have to sleep in a ball in the corner of a non-heated shack and wear rags for clothes. All it meant was that I never had things. Like, nice things. Things that I didn’t necessarily need, that i could just have and use whenever I felt like it. But, I didn’t mind. If you never really know what it’s like to have things, then you don’t ever realize how unhappy you are- it’s like numbing the sadness, you know?
For example, say I was in pain all of the time- and I mean ALL. OF. THE. TIME. And, say that I had never really felt happiness before. Then, how would i even know that what I was feeling was pain? How would I be able to tell the difference between something I have experienced and something I haven't?- It’s obviously quite complicated.
Anyways, when my mom told me the good news about how she had worked so hard but was able to get me a scholarship to this camp, I couldn't say no. Not that I didn't want to go... But, I didn't.
It's just, sometimes my mom can be impossible to say no to. Especially when she gets this hopeful look in her wary, mahogany-colored eyes- that look where you can just tell she's been thinking things like, 'it's true, my #life has really sucked- but that doesn't mean I can't make my daughter's #life the most perfect #life in the world! I'll give her everything she's ever wanted bla bla bla'.
Don't get me wrong, I love my mom. But I always felt like she tried too hard to make ME happy. I mean- what about her? She should be happy too, right? But, I guess that all went to hell after she decided to marry my dad- the Slob of Slobs, the Ass of Assholes, the Drunk Idiot of Drunken Idiots.
He rarely came out of his bedroom- which, by the way, was the only bedroom in our apartment. Every time I passed by it, I always tried to be as quiet as possible so I wouldn't wake him up. Although, I admit, it was hard not to gag passing that door- it smelled so extremely foul- I’m not sure how to explain it. It was as if you took some rotten eggs and out-of-date milk and mixed it in a metallic bowl along with some alcohol-flavored barf and dog sweat. But, even that description doesn’t quite live up to that door’s smell. That door was literally soap's worst enemy. It was red with tons of cracks in it- as if it had been shredded and then carefully put back together. And obviously, the people who had painted the door tried to match it to the walls of the kitchen- although they painted several shades to bright.
Anyways, the last time I had ever seen my dad sober was about.... Never. Which, I guess, technically means I have never really seen my dad- just some old man who enjoys drinking whiskey out of the same flask every few seconds. I remember, maybe when I was seven, I was sitting on the beat up couch in the living room- which my mom and I would share- when suddenly a huge crash pierced my ears, making my notebook crash against the wood floor. I nearly fell along with it as I scrambled to my feet and stood stiffly as I stared at the door and waited for another sound.
Suddenly, my mom appeared from behind the door and slammed it behind her. She quickly put her back against it just in case something were to follow her out. Her hair wasn’t the blondish-grey perfectness it usually was. Instead, it was all over the place- like a bird’s nest, is what she would’ve called it. The seam from the side of her shirt was becoming undone, although she didn’t seem to notice. She stared upwards at the low ceiling as if there was something beyond it that was scaring the #life out of her. then I noticed it- her lips were slightly moving at the speed of light and her eyes looked wetter than usual- something was wrong.
But I didn’t move. I just watched. What was I supposed to do?
Something bumped against the other side of the door- making both of us jump. Then another bump, but this one not against the door. And then it was quiet.
She froze, her lips trembling but no longer mumbling things I couldn’t read. Then she slowly transferred her gaze to where I was standing. Me- her seven year old daughter. The one who had absolutely no clue as to what was going on. Her eyes were scared and her lips were no longer the only part of her that was trembling. Then, her head tilted barely one degree as her eyes softened. It was that kind of head tilt that meant something like, ‘Oh, I’m such a horrible mother’.
Then, her trembling limbs glided away from the disgusting door and made their way towards me. Her arms wrapped themselves around me- along with her warmth. I don’t remember whether I was just tall for my age or if she was just short- but i do remember her chin resting on the top of my head. And her warm tears soaking into my hair.
Anyways, I ended up not going to that camp thing. Which makes sense, in a way, since good things never seem to last for my family. Or at least for my mom and I.
But we were so close. Well, that’s what she said. Although it’s not all that true, I’d like to believe it is.
Although, in the end, it didn’t matter. Because I found something better. And like every good thing I’ve ever found, I found this at the library.
