darkzadez
Nov 28, 2009
Undergraduate / Prompt #2 - The Misguided Martyr [3]
Prompt #2
The Misguided Martyr
It happened all too fast on an all too familiar night. My mom had left the house for a drive after another pointless, belligerent confrontation with my brother. It was her way to cope and had been as far as I could remember. She had confrontations with everyone, but my brother was the fire to her volatile mind. I was still huddled up inside of my room, drowning out the happenings in the rest of the house through studies to avoid exacerbating the conflict. My mom, who was so bent on my academics would rarely interrupt my studying regardless of the situation. Naturally, I was shaken when someone broke through the door, but the solemn look on my dads face brought forth new fears. "It's your mother on the phone, you talk to her, I have to find her, whatever you do, do not hang up," he muttered breathlessly then leaving the house in a haste. She was vaguely understandable through her sobbing: she told me she didn't have much time - apologized ceaselessly for her actions - and reminded me to make the world a better one once she was gone. She would hear no reason, and though I tried, my words came choked up as she rambled on like a broken record.
I followed my father upon his merciful return, trodding barefoot through the muck and grass. We found the car in which my mom lay, an empty vodka bottle and a pill bottle by her side. I held her up, restraining her from further movement as we sped through the streets. We cut people off and ran red lights; risking our lives and I realized there was no greater fear in any of our minds than losing my mom that night.
"No! she wailed, "Don't take me, I didn't take it, I didn't do anything!" My hands were sweaty and trembling as I scoured every conceivable area in the car. My search came up dry. When I opened the bottle to count the pills, I realized it was new and had never been opened. Our heroic endeavors were quelled at once, both with relief and utter humiliation. My father stopped the car, sighed, and covered his face with his palm. My brother looked defeated. Thoughts ran wild in my mind as I sat in shock listening to my mom's muffled, yet ever-comforting sobs on our long ride home.
The next morning, we were told not to speak of what transpired last night. And that was it, no appreciation, no acknowledgement and most of all no apologies. Her actions were a cry for help, a cry only heard by us. And her actions are a burden I must bear forever on. I know she thinks highly of me and sets forth great I expectations. Though I may never live up to those expectations, if I can make her world one worth living in, it would mean the world to me.
Prompt #2
The Misguided Martyr
It happened all too fast on an all too familiar night. My mom had left the house for a drive after another pointless, belligerent confrontation with my brother. It was her way to cope and had been as far as I could remember. She had confrontations with everyone, but my brother was the fire to her volatile mind. I was still huddled up inside of my room, drowning out the happenings in the rest of the house through studies to avoid exacerbating the conflict. My mom, who was so bent on my academics would rarely interrupt my studying regardless of the situation. Naturally, I was shaken when someone broke through the door, but the solemn look on my dads face brought forth new fears. "It's your mother on the phone, you talk to her, I have to find her, whatever you do, do not hang up," he muttered breathlessly then leaving the house in a haste. She was vaguely understandable through her sobbing: she told me she didn't have much time - apologized ceaselessly for her actions - and reminded me to make the world a better one once she was gone. She would hear no reason, and though I tried, my words came choked up as she rambled on like a broken record.
I followed my father upon his merciful return, trodding barefoot through the muck and grass. We found the car in which my mom lay, an empty vodka bottle and a pill bottle by her side. I held her up, restraining her from further movement as we sped through the streets. We cut people off and ran red lights; risking our lives and I realized there was no greater fear in any of our minds than losing my mom that night.
"No! she wailed, "Don't take me, I didn't take it, I didn't do anything!" My hands were sweaty and trembling as I scoured every conceivable area in the car. My search came up dry. When I opened the bottle to count the pills, I realized it was new and had never been opened. Our heroic endeavors were quelled at once, both with relief and utter humiliation. My father stopped the car, sighed, and covered his face with his palm. My brother looked defeated. Thoughts ran wild in my mind as I sat in shock listening to my mom's muffled, yet ever-comforting sobs on our long ride home.
The next morning, we were told not to speak of what transpired last night. And that was it, no appreciation, no acknowledgement and most of all no apologies. Her actions were a cry for help, a cry only heard by us. And her actions are a burden I must bear forever on. I know she thinks highly of me and sets forth great I expectations. Though I may never live up to those expectations, if I can make her world one worth living in, it would mean the world to me.
