My family left me a long time ago. You see, it started when I was around 14 years old, and my parents had a sudden revelation: they "weren't in love with each other anymore, but they still loved me." Now, let me tell you how incorrect that statement is. They had an interesting way of showing their "love", what with screaming in my ear about how worthless and stupid I was, and how they didn't want to see my face anymore. I recall my father even trying to beat me one or two times; I thik my mother tried to stop him, but eventually realized that her strong suit was raising her voice and delivering empty threats. It was my father who was the real menace at our house. He didn't actually leave for another year or two, but man, was I overcome with joy when he did.


However, I was stuck with my mother and two younger siblings. What, I didn't mention I had siblings before? Well, yeah, they do exist somewhere on this Earth. They're just not really worth mentioning, you know? They're kind of like the big, fat elephant in the room, that nobody wants to acknowledge - and for good reasons, too. My sister was probably the biggest suck up ever known to mankind, and my brother was nothing but a lazy bum.



My sister, Chloe, was constantly doing anything and everything to make sure everyone was just in love with her. At school, she would always try and be buddy-buddy with the teachers, but once their back was turned, she became Ms. Big Talk. "I swear to God, one of these days I'm just gonna cuss this lady out", "I swear to God, one of these days I'm just gonna walk out of this class", "I swear to God, one of these days I'm just gonna blah blah blah". She gets it straight from her mother - all talk, but no play. I swear to God, sometimes I just wanted to take that girl and knock some sense into her; knock some of those loose wires back into place. She was just about 5'4", with long, sandy blond hair, green eyes, a "cute" little mole underneath her left eye, and a small button nose with perfect cupid bow lips to top it off. What kind of damage was she gonna do to me?


My brother, Jason, on the other hand, could care less about... well... everything. For example, if you were on fire, he'd just sit there, stare at you, and when you're already burnt to a fine crisp, he would decide to throw a bucket of water on you. Even I wasn't as bad as him, not ever. In school, you could hand the kid the easiest worksheet in the world, and he would just stare at it for the longest time. He would even try to do it, not even a little. Seems like that's all any kid does anymore. No effort is put in to anything, so we end up with people like Jason. Maybe I needed to fix some of his wires, too.


I guess I shouldn't complain too much, though. I got kicked out of that house around the time I was about to turn 18, and I never really looked back. I fell in with the wrong crowd, and my mother quickly decided that she was getting tired of me sneaking out at 2 A.M., and not coming home until 12 A.M., the next day. I don't think she liked the way I smelled, either. The crowd I hung around made me do some crazy things, and I guess the people around me were finally beginning to notice the effect these guys were having on me. I had never rebelled so much before in my entire life, and it felt absolutely wonderful. I didn't care about anything anymore, for the longest time. I felt almost invincible, like I was made of pure bulletproof glass; I could say or do anything I wanted, without worrying about the repercussions afterward.


I am now 26 years old, and living in one of the shoddiest apartment complexes around town. I barely make enough money to pay what few bills I do have, and to buy enough food to last me through the week. All of my "friends" left me a while ago, taking whatever was left of that childish innocence I once had, and leaving me a shell of my former self. I searched through phonebook after phonebook just to find my mother's number, so I could call her, and see how she was holding up. I remember feeling the vomit beginning to pool in the very back of my throat, and the cold sweat running down the back of my neck as I dialed the number. I waited about ten seconds or so, before someone finally picked up... but it wasn't my mother. It was Chloe. How could I forget that squeaky, tiny voice of hers?


Needless to say, Chloe had a few choice words for me. I had to pull the phone away from my ear a few times when she started screeching into it. I couldn't understand why she was so angry with me; we barely had a relationship to be upset over, even when I was still living at home. Whenever I tried to talk, her voice quickly interrupted mine, and she went on another three minute rant about how useless I was. Finally, I managed to cut her off, and ask her how our mother was doing lately. I got no response, so I tried to ask again. She responded to my inquiry with one of her own: "Why do you care now?"


It took me a minute, before I could give a decent enough answer. "I don't know... I just do. Is that so wrong of me? Can you just answer my question, or am I asking too much of you, princess?"


Chloe didn't answer me, she just sighed. I hunched over in my old, broken office chair, jabbing my hand into the air as I tried asking her again, "How. Is. Our mother. Doing?"


Silence, then suddenly, "...She's been dead for the past three years, Jeff."


I don't really remember much of the conversation, after that very moment. I don't think I want to remember. Just the way my sister said my name... it was cold, unkind, and hateful. The way she made sure that the fact my mother was gone was drilled into my skull still makes me feel sick to my stomach. I haven't tried calling that number again, ever since. There's nothing but bad memories lingering there, forever clinging to the very bricks upon which the house is kept together by. Maybe my mother's ghost still hangs around there, too, staring down anyone who passes by.


I guess, in a way, I'm not too glad that I got thrown out. Maybe there was a chance that I could have made a turn for the better, and gotten my life back on track. I guess, in a way, I ended up resenting my mother for being so harsh. I resented her for splitting apart from my father, even though he was hardly any better. Perhaps they could have worked things out, too.


Maybe they gave up on themselves. Things got too difficult for them, and the stress of trying to make things work got to be a bit too much. Going by that logic, I suppose I gave up on myself, too. I saw nothing worth saving in myself, and I let everything slip by. Maybe I'm just starting to become a bit too philosophical for my own good. But, really, is life just that simple? If it was, we would all be the same carbon copies of each other; no flavor or spice to add to anything. I guess that's why some of us end up on the better end of life, and others... don't. We all bring some sort of destructive balance to the world, and without that balance, we'd drop right off.


It's time to stop writing now, I think. I'll just shove this notebook and pencil back under my couch, and let myself grow stale for a bit, until I try picking this back up again. All these grown up thoughts are starting to hurt this immature brain of mine, more so than I already have.