Here is some prose I composed. Lol. It's a lot more intense than a lot of my posts. But it is still fictional. It is the first page in a long series of pages. Maybe its crap, maybe its not. Tell me what you think if you feel in the mood to read some long ass prose by a peer. Bear (maybe bare? lol) in mind that it is a small excerpt from the work as a whole. It isn't finished. Isn't final. It just Is.

What happens when a family member’s mind is slowly unraveling before your eyes? Do you turn a blind eye to their increasing paranoia?
But then, what if they are your sole support and you are not capable of supporting yourself or living on your own? If they are a parent, as a child, what can you do?

The flicker on the TV lights up the dark, hostile room. The same DVD menu has been playing for hours, quite literally. Its once happy music has now been transformed into a dirge. In part by its constant repetition, but mostly because of the sullen atmosphere of the room. It’s so cold in here. Not just the temperature, but the mood. It permeates the air. With each breath, I feel it stinging and crawling to escape my lungs. But this is just the beginning.

I stare at the outline of a person dear to me, lying on the bed. As I stand there, I don’t have to see her face to know the emotions it harbors. I hear the breath, the one that always proceeds. That‘s when they come. The words. The quick, high paced words full to the brim. They start loud and strong. I am being chastised for something I didn’t do. Something I couldn’t have done. Why, is not important anymore. I don’t even remember why to be quite honest. It the words that haunt my memory. To be scolded. I would welcome it compared with the verbal rampage that is tearing away at my soul.

Some say words don’t matter. But of course, those people are wrong. Words live just as much as you or I. The difference, however, is that they are only casts made from the molds of our emotions. Words given birth during joy, reflect the happiness of our souls. Likewise, words shaped in hatred burn like the sorrow that created it. We give them life, and as a result, they reflect us, even define us. Well, that’s my thoughts anyway.

But in my case, or at least at this particular moment in time, I am struggling to cope with so much hatred. It seeps into my mind. I want it out. It isn’t mine. It is forcing hateful thoughts to escape the darkest recesses of my mind. Leave. I can control what I think. But I can’t. I can’t keep them contained in my head. Verbally, they do not escape. But the hateful sentiments of another is creating words inside of me.

As I stand there in fear and anger, the only thing that keeps those words inside is the knowledge that my mother is not alright. Her mind has been crippled by events of her past. In all honesty, events of our past. The same, albeit not exact, events of our past have left her mind unhinged. Events that are now painful memories, like the divorce, the abuse, the anger, the fights, the lies. I manage not to remember them well.

My father broke her. I have never seen a human soul so utterly crushed by the actions of another. It wasn’t the physical abuse or the manipulation, it was just the action of his willingness to leave. She could have, she would have, endure all if only it would have meant his presence. But that was not fate. As I see the light reflected in her eyes, all I see in them is emotions. The essential fabric, if you will, has been torn form her mind and she is lacking. Its as if she is permanently separated from the results of her actions.

Her actions scare me. She is now describing her death to me. Her suicidal thoughts manifested in those god forsaken words again. As her child, how do I react? How can I react? Hearing the pain in every word, it makes me feel responsible. I know I am not. But how else can I feel. The anger makes me wish that they were true, makes me wish she wasn’t here. How can a human feel that way? I deeply care for her. Those aren’t my words.

If you saw her on the street, you would not point at her. Not for fear she would retaliate, but because at a distance, she still manages to functions in society. She is tall, broad and carries around a few extra pounds in the waist. She keeps her hair short, blond sometimes. But it used to be black. She was always scarier with black hair. Her face is narrow, with small eyes and a pointy pale nose. It’s the kind of face I always associated with authority.

Her rant slowly starts to quiet down. I try to squeeze the words out of my mind the best I can. Don’t misunderstand me, I am thankful for the good that I have. In fact, that is all I can thank for being able to endure this. I allow these pleasant thoughts to whirl and whiz around in my head. Words like love, friendship, relationship, sport, book. Thinks that I find joy in. I like those words, I will keep them.