There she was, lying on the sofa again. Her eyes closed, looking so peaceful, yet every time I saw her this way fear would rush through me. I would wonder if she was asleep or if this time she was actually dead. I ran over to her as I do every time I see her this way and shake her body, shouting "wake up, wake up" over and over until she finally stirs. Her eyes are bloodshot and I'm not even sure if they are focusing on me, but I'm just relieved that she is still alive. Pieces of burnt tin foil litter the floor and I know she has used again today. She no longer says sorry for me finding her like this, she no longer pleads forgiveness from me or claims she will change. 1
This woman I am talking about is my mother. My mother, the drug addict.2
I used to believe she would change. Once. A long long time ago, but I was young then. Naïve. I suppose I still am slightly naïve. Deep down inside there is a part of me wishing that she will change. A little part of me clings to a tiny glimmer of hope, that one day she’ll say “I’m going to change sweetheart” and mean it. But that glimmer of hope gets smaller every day and I find myself having to grasp tighter just so it doesn’t disappear altogether. 3
Tears sting my eyes as I begin to clean to my mother up. She was no longer awake. The heroin and vodka taking its effect and acting as sleeping pills. I prayed her present state wouldn’t be a permanent one. Gently placing a cushion under her head, I threw an old blanket over her. Just so she was warm. Next I picked up the tin foil that was carelessly scattered around the floor and threw them in the bin along with the empty vodka bottles. Not once had I ever found a vodka bottle full enough to put back in the cabinet. A constant reminder of how bad her addictions had gotten. 4
Standing on the opposite side of the room, I stared at her helplessly. I swore to myself, I would never turn out that way. I would never drink and I would never do drugs. It wasn’t worth it. To think of my daughter twenty years from now looking at me and feeling the way I do about my mom now sent shivers down my spine. 5
I don’t hate my mom, I hate what she’s become. Before Dad left she wasn’t like this. She was my mom, the one that cared, the one that was always there no matter what, the one that knew when something was wrong as soon as I walked in the door, the one that had self respect, dignity. She used to be my best friend, now she’s a monster. A monster that I’m afraid of. No, afraid for. I don’t want her to dig herself into an early grave. I don’t want to watch herself have another accident on the couch because she’s too high on drugs to realise she needs the bathroom. I don’t want these images of her keeping me awake at night. I don’t want to put with this anymore.6
As if someone was listening to my private thoughts, moms breath hitched in her throat. I glanced over towards her, horrified. Everything was silent. I stared longingly at her chest. Wishing it to rise again. To show that she was still alive, but nothing happened. “Mom” I whispered. It took a long, excruciating second for it to sink in.
“MOM” I screamed. I ran to her lifeless body. Desperately hoping I was dreaming. I fell to my knees in front of her and took her limp hand in mine.
“Mom please wake up, I didn’t mean it, any of it, I didn’t mean what I was thinking. Just please, please wake up mom. Talk to me, look at me. Anything?” my voice lowered to a mere whisper at the end of the sentence. A whisper but frantic none the less.7
Tears rolled shamelessly down my face. I couldn’t believe it, she was dead, gone. Never coming back! Ever. I’d never felt anything like this. This pain was more crippling than the pain I’d felt when Dad left us. Something I thought was impossible. I’d just been proved wrong. I stopped pacing the room and fell to the wooden floor. My hand clasped tightly around the left side of my ribcage. Almost as if I was holding my heart together from the outside. Loud echoing sobs left my lips, as I laid uncomfortably on the floor. My eyes fell on a little bag. Its contents white like sugar. Only thinner, more inviting. I couldn’t. Could I? My mom used to tell me in the beginning, she took heroin to help chill her out. If that was the case, maybe I should. 8
A sickly smile spread across my face, as drugs took their desired effect. I hugged my knees to my chest and got lost in the euphoric world I’d just entered.9
Who knew my life would end up like this? People must always have had their own idea's and preconceptions of how my life would turn out. Some must have looked at me and thought I would hate my mother so much for what she put me through that I would have done everything and anything in my power to ensure I did not turn out like her. Others probably had me labelled a junkie just like her from the day I was born. Have I proved any of them wrong? Should I even care what anyone else thinks? Deep down, no matter what anyone thinks or says about her, I love her. She is my mother. She's the only one I will ever have. And now she’s gone.10
I only hope she is proud of me.11
A contest entry
- Can you fill the gap? by Melancholic Smile.
500 points, ended June 5, 2008, 4 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
This is my first contest. Criticism will be welcomed and appreciated. But please go easy.
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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This was incredibly powerful! My own mother is actually an alcoholic, so the subject of addiction is extrememly touching to me. I hope that this subject isn't true for you, and if it is, I'm deeply sorry. But you wrote this beautifully, and evoked so much emotion. I can't believe that this is some of your first stuff on the site.
Congrats on the win!
-jj
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Wow, I have to say that this is one of my most favourite entries. You picked up on so many details in your descriptions and used this imagery to make it incredibly realistic. For your first contest entry this is brilliant! You made the story flow well - if anything I would maybe suggest it being slightly longer - but at the same time you ended it really well. I think I just wanted to keep reading. Great job and good luck in the contest!
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Oh wow. I must say, new authors on this site usually fail at writing.
You're a glaring exception to the rule.
To start, the subject really touched me. How much reality is this story based off of? I wanted to shed a tear myself when you started crying, and that's no lie.
The bit about you clutching your ribcage was incredibly realistic. Most people miss details like that in writing, but I'm glad to see that you hit upon it. It made your story much more connectable and imaginable.
And of course, when you took the heroin, I became greatly disappointed. You succumbed to the pressure. But that's okay, because your writing is still awesome! *thumbs up*
But seriously, you did an epic job here. I look forward to reading more of your stuff. You can check out of some of my stuff if you want (and I suggest that you do, since I'm the most amazing person known to mankind), but you don't have to (read - you have to).
-Keasbey
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I'd actually read this contest last night but decided not to try and enter since its not my kind of story. I love the one you wrote for it and hope you win.
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Good!
I like the descriptors, you did really well. A very realistic and somewhat horrifying story you've got.beginning: 4, language: 5, plot: 5, ending: 3, dialog: 3, characters: 4.
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I like it because of the message and its a thing that happens every day
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