She sits there staring at me. Vicious, possessed eyes. The person who gave birth to me, now reduced to nothing more than a dying addict. Alcohol, a friend at times, a deceiver always. Just a way of coping with the pain. Self medicating.... again. "I drink because I am depressed, I am depressed because I drink." It is a shared vice, like mother, like son. Smoking and drinking became a way of relating. Relating to and otherwise non existent parental relationship.
"You were an accident, I wish you were never born," she said once. Words as sharp as razor blades cutting deep into my soul. Regret and resentment had tainted to the core.
of saying "You have to stop, slow down, cut back." All amounting to
wasted breath and visions of her death. "My chest hurts," she said
said. Off to the E.R. we go. They seem to be surprised she is even
alive. Atrophy of the brain is 30 years past her age.... from the
alcoholism. The tumor in her chest is huge, like a orange, from the cigarettes. There is no
cure at this point, only a matter in father time's hands. The one thing we seek to control, but never will..... time.
wake up every night, with visions of her staring at me. She looks just
like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. Those hollow, black eyes staring into my soul.
In her voice I hear the anger as I now have control over her addiction. The
alcohol and cigarettes have changed to narcotic pain medication. "Give
me my precious" she yells.... as the blood runs down her chin, from the
animal she just killed and ate raw. "My precious" she yells, as she
claws her way into my soul. "My precious" she yelled, up until she
"My precious," she yells, every night in my dreams. I wait in horror for my time to become her. My precious.