𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆

𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒚 ⚔︎

—-𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒍𝒂𝒚—-
;ଓ

(Mature topics and disturbing and sensitive imagery. Warning!)

Playing Soap by Melanie Martinez

'I said too much, it overflowed. Why do I always spill? I feel it coming up my throat, guess I better wash my mouth out with soap. God, I wish I never spoke, now I gotta wash my mouth out with soap.'

My father had the kind of anger all fathers do. Loud and terrible.

It lingers your whole life.

      ♡ 𝑷𝑼𝑹𝑮𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀    ♡

Life was never kind to me. As a child, I always found myself repeating the word 'why?'

Why?

Why was my father who he was?

Why was my mother gone?

Who had I pissed off in a past life to deserve this?

My childhood was a hell I would never wish to relive. I remember it was never normal compared to the expectations on TV. Sitting on that old, rotting couch as a child, watching the broken TV of families I should be in.

Families that I thought I would have.

Families I learnt I would never have.

But seven year old me had to learn the hard way. Only seven when my mother had disappeared.

Whether she left or died, I never found out. I remembered sitting on the windowsill, drawing shapes in the mist on window as I awaited her cheery smile and noticeable curly hair.

She worked regular, though then I never knew what her job was. She would come home, tired with deep bags under her eyes. But not once did she not show me her smile. Her smile was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen in my life.

She was beautiful.

Pearly white teeth with a smile that took up half her face and cute dimples that she passed onto me. She was tall and slim, like the ladies of the magazine but she had a different kind of beauty. A natural and real kind of beauty I had heard.

I waited

And I waited.

Hours turned into days, turned into to months and then years. She never came back.

Those sacred moments I held with her nothing more than a memory. A dream.

She had left me with him.

My father was a cruel person. Growing up it was always finding ways to stay out of that house, dodging flying beer bottles, staying out of his eye-line.

I don't know why my mother stayed with him for as long as she did. I don't know how she kept that smile on her face whenever she greeted me. That was beyond me.

I knew from a very young age the type of man my father was. We lived in the middle of no where. Our house old and abandoned looking, any passer would take it to be rundown. But it was the only place I called home.