Dear my poor excuse of my father



If you’re reading this I’m probably already dead. I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I would ask for your forgiveness, but I’m past the point of caring. Don’t worry about me though; I’m in a better place now. Better than the hell hole you’ve called home for the past fifteen years. Better than the dull, dark, dry front of the house, paint peeling from the wall, a reflection of the occupant’s heart. Better than the shattered windows, forever screaming, forever allowing the cold, bitter, draughty wind into the house, better than the lifeless trees and grey grass, surrounding the house, never showing any sign of happiness, a vividly close representation of me.


As I sit here and furiously write my last words, I stare out to the tormented trees, twisted and bent in every way. I’m finally free of the dark, dismal and hazardous room under the stairs, “the punishment room” the room I forever reside in. And now, as I take my last few breaths in this world, a world of torment and misery, I still remember the creaking windows, always taunting me. The rickety door, that would slam shut as soon as I close my eyes. More than anything, I remember the shouts and screams from the cruel, dark world outside our shamble of a house, forever reminding me of the tortured screams of my mother as she took her last breathe.


I’ve had my mind set for a while now. I hated living with you. Your smug face, always thinking you were better, smarter, stronger than me. Your vile face, creased like a shirt, rough like a labour man’s hand, ragged like the rocks at the bottom of a waterfall. Your coarse hand, repelling all thoughts of a hug. The cold essence that emitted from your fat, repulsive body, constantly keeping me at bay. Please don’t take this lightly, I mean this with all offense, I hope this hurts you, I hope you feel terribly, terribly bad about this, and live your life knowing you have taken mine.


If it makes you feel any better, I have always hated you. I still fail to understand why my delicate, sweet, loving mother ], who would comfort me when I was down, open doors when I had nowhere else to run, shield me from your rage as you cursed at me. Why she would want to live her life with you, you monster of a man. She was the beauty and you were the beast. I suppose my hatred for you deepened when you let her leave. How? How could you let her leave? Why? Why didn’t you get her to stay? The she would still be here, a ray of sunshine to love and look after me.


I know that if she was still here, she wouldn’t allow these dark thoughts to enter my head. She wouldn’t hear of it, I just know she wouldn’t. I know she would take one look at my torn, tattered clothes, and go out to buy me a dress fit for a queen. And I know she would cook and cook, till her eyes were sore and fingers numb, just to keep me happy.


The only thing that comforts me as I saunder down this dark road, like rowing a boat of longing down a river of solitude, is the image of my mother, locked in my mind and sealed in my heart. I remember it as though it was only yesterday. We would walk hand in reassuring hand, toes in the cool, refreshing sand, and we would stare at a faraway land. We would dance and sing and not care about a thing. We would live life like life was meant to be lived. We would be free, we would be happy. As we danced and sang, I would focus on my mother’s fanatical features. My mother wouldn’t speak, she would sing. Her eyelids would batter down her deep green eyes. Her long, luscious hair would flow down her back like a calm waterfall. She was a gazelle, graceful, loving, and tender. It was as if when she smiled, the sun would smile. When she smiled, the whole world would smile. Her perfectly aligned teeth, white and shining. Her soft, sweet lips that would hush me to sleep, her smooth, hypnotising voice that would calm even the rowdiest of seas. She was a gift from God, an angel, and you let her go. You lost the only thing that ever gave you joy, and for that, I smile.


Do you remember? The night my angel burnt to the ground. All the screaming and writhing and pleading and begging. The whimpering and praying and wishing. The crying and cursing. The tormented soul. The final breath, the silencing “thud” as she fell to the ground. Do you remember? Because I do.


Knowing you father; you probably just went straight into reading my final words, oblivious of your surroundings. I doubt you have even looked around, you ignorant oaf. You probably aren’t even aware of the lifeless corpse, rotting away, limped and slumped by the wall, the wall of my mother and I. You probably haven’t smelt the burnt cinders of the charred wall where my body now finally rests in peace. If you do walk up to me, you will notice my eyes, lifeless, cold and hard, unmoving, forever looking out into a world I never knew. And know, just like my mother burnt to the ground all those years ago, I too have followed her into a better place.

Distastefully yours



Emily...