Bruised

One

Everyone says that time is the best healer, but I feel like no matter if I had all the time in the world I would still not be able to heal after years of torment from the people I care about most. Even though it has been three years since my mother died in a car crash and my father got shot dead. I still wake up screaming from nightmares. My past still clings to me, skeleton hands holding me back, even as I push forward into the daylight. I stare at my reflection staring right back at me. With broken eyes like shattered glass, I've have not been myself lately. The truth is I have not been myself for what feels like a long time, so long that I have begun to wonder whether I ever really knew. I stare. Unblinking, into the mirror. My father is dead. I close my eyes, steeling myself against the unwelcome strain in my chest. My father is dead. He was a monster! He deserved worst, and still- this pain. The fire of true hatred, cannot exist without the oxygen of affection. I would not hurt so much or hate so much if I didn't care. And it is this, my unrequited affection for my parents, that has always been my greatest weakness. So here I lie here, marinating in sorrow I can never speak of, while regret consumes my heart. I am an orphan.