Reasons.

My deepest thanks and greatest respect to you, *****. Thanks for letting me use your life.

It all started with my washing. You stopped doing my washing. The reasons why are beyond me; perhaps it was something to do with the argument over the post the day before. The argument over the fact that I hadn't put your post on the kitchen table when I'd picked up my own. I'll admit, we blew it completely out of proportion, but what's my washing got to do with it? I forget what you said; I honestly don't care, really. Either way, you stopped doing my washing. At the time, it didn't bother me, I was, and still am, perfectly capable of washing my clothes myself. It was only when you insisted I also did your ironing as well as my own, then telling me I was doing it wrong, despite the fact I had been doing the ironing for years. That was the point you started to annoy me.

 

Unfortunately, being who you are, one ironing session, you sparked off another argument. I had ironed a crease into your shirt. This was easily rectified, but you seized your chance to pick at me, again. You'd been doing a lot in the time between the letter fiasco and the ironing argument. The only difference about this little 'let's-pick-at-you' session was that this time, you tripped my fuse. No, nothing happened that night. Or the next day, or the day after that. In fact, it wasn't until you told me I couldn't go to my orchestra concert four weeks later because I now had no black shoes, it wasn't until then that I flipped.

 

I had no black shoes because of you, anyway. You were the one that threw them out. I look back, and I'm sure I can remember why. It was the end of the year, summer holiday time. I had slept in, and you were going shopping. You asked me if I'd like to come and do some of my school shopping, I said I was meeting friends later, and I wasn't dressed. This statement was partially true, I wasn't dressed. I hadn't made plans to go out, I just didn't fancy trailing around a shopping centre with you telling me I was a disappointment. You went out, acting like nothing was wrong. You came home, having decided that I'd rejected you and your supposedly 'kind offer.' With that, you threw away my black shoes I would be needing the week after for a concert. Your logic astounds me, how was throwing away a perfectly good pair of shoes going to help the situation? You obviously thought it would, though, as you proceeded to throw out all but two pairs of my shoes; the pair on my feet and the pair I had left at my friend's house. Your reasoning behind this in the following days was that I didn't need them or that they weren't new enough.

 

Back to the concert night. I had no black shoes, therefore could not go. It didn't stop me, mind. In a way, I wish I hadn't done what I did next, but in another, I'm damn glad I did. Instead of my black shoes you had thrown out, I wore my four-inch prom shoes. Yes, they hurt, but I went to the concert, and beat you at your little game. You didn't speak to me for a month, a bittersweet reward.

 

I could tell you were itching to pick at me again, and this annoyed me beyond belief. I wasn't, however, about to start an argument with you. It was the night of Fathers Day whilst doing a blog quiz for my MySpace that, instead, I wrote about you. The question was something like 'What are the last four things to annoy you?' and I wrote this.

 

“3. My Mum.

Of course she's in here. When isn't she in the last four things to have p*ssed me off? At the minute I think she must be in the time of the month where it should be her time of the month but it isn't because she's hit old age. And has been forgetting to take those menopause tablets, by the sounds of it. She's looking for an argument almost ALL the time, and it's driving me around the bend just sitting there going 'yes Mummy, no Mummy, of course Mummy, love you Mummy'. And every time I've mentioned it being fathers day, all I've heard is non-stop 'everyday is HAZEL day'. No, it isn't. Today is FATHERS day. Tomorrow will be MONDAY. Day after, TUESDAY. It goes on. Other than my birthday, I don't have a day. Stop going on about it as if I order your services everyday, because believe me, if I needed some expert sh*t, I would go and look in a field of cows. Gr.”

 

You never saw this, but you didn't hold your silence for much longer after it was online. This, I think was the biggest clash. I'm happy to say you nearly ruined my life. It started, again, because of ironing. A popular argument starter in the house. I had just got in from a school trip, we had been to London as part of my Drama course. As I walk through the door, you demand I do the ironing. I, being shocked at the sudden angry request, refused. My reason was that I had just stumbled in the house after a four hour coach journey, five if you count trying to get out of London, and needed badly to sleep. That was one of the biggest mistakes I made. I was now branded the 'daughter from hell.' I didn't have a job, I walked in and wouldn't do the ironing because I was dead on my feet, I asked for lifts, I asked for food and shelter. What kind of a daughter was I?

 

As far as I am aware, I was like every other daughter in the nation. Sure, I could have been in a job, but you stopped me there too. Age fifteen, I wanted a job, and you wouldn't let me. Then, you refused to buy me new trainers. I only remember this because of a diary entry I saved. Here, I thought the same of you then as I do now.

 

“i'm a little annoyed right now, and whose fault is that, no! surely NOT MY MOTHER. again. the fact i haven't had a pair of trainers bought for me for the last four years, and i've used the same pair for pe since i've been at hagley, and another pair since before that for outside school is BEYOND THE POINT. the fact both pairs have HUGE holes in, in the sole AND toe. oh no, nevermind that. the fact my mum put me twenty pounds on my phone the other day obviously means i'm ungrateful for being SO GREEDY as wanting something to wear on my feet, when i didn't ask for the phone credit IN THE FIRST PLACE! and that's not the only thing. every item of clothing i've had in the last four years has been out of MY money, or some form of hand-me-down. it's not like i've asked for a lot recently... or ever. so i honestly don't get what her problem is. yes, i was already in a mood enough, because we're apparantly not broke enough for her to call my aunty for hours on end and repeat every event of today, for her, me, my dad, my sister - as she knows it. oh, and of the other three aunties she has already spent half the day on the phone to. maybe if she went and LIVED WITH ALL OF THEM, she wouldn't have to repeat every step they all take, to everyone else. in fact, we're not broke at all, but anything seems to be an excuse to take away everything i DO have. 'if you don't stop being damn grateful, that laptop is coming RIGHT off you'. right OFF ME is it? it was a f*****g birthday & christmas present, you don't take them away, what are you going to do with it? you barely know how to turn the windows '95 on! nevermind the fact we have two computers other than the one which belongs to ONLY ME. both of those are TOO MUCH of a god damn loss if we're that f*****g poor. the sky+, dad buying motorbike after microlight after unicycle for crying out loud! the amount of food rotting at the back of our freezer, due to you constantly refilling the front of the fridge with the odd £700 a week you spend to feed a family of three. and then it's 'hazel, you're going on holiday'. SO F*****G WHAT? she is not paying for me to go on holiday, she'll give me thirty pounds to spend while i'm there and that's SUCH A F*****G DENT IN HER POCKET NOW IT'S COME OUT IN THE OPEN I EXPECT TO WEAR SHOES WHILE I'M THERE, too. if she'd let me have a job, it wouldn't be an issue, but, y'know what? f**k her. if i can, i'll go out and get one myself, walk three miles into rugeley for it, or further if needs to. and she won't get a single penny of my money. why should she? i've just turned fifeteen, and she's reluctant to help me in anyway earn money. if i need to, i'll nag her to sort out my bank account so i can have a card and empty it out, and i'll buy my own f*****g shoes.”

 

It's ironic, isn't it? Up until I lose interest in having a job, you refuse to let me find one. Now, the minute I lose interest in getting a job, I should be contributing to the income. It's a lose-lose situation. But, back to the night that nearly destroyed my life. I didn't improve the mood by telling you I wanted to stop playing clarinet in orchestra (I wished to play flute instead, but you bit my head off before I could say so.). To you, it was the so called 'final straw.' I don't remember a lot about that night, only that you basically threw me out. First, I wasn't going to be fed unless I had a job. Then, you were no longer going to take me to school. This proved too much for me, and I went to stay at my sisters. It wasn't enough that you'd upset me and driven me out. You just HAD to ring up my sister and tell her if she kept me that night, she kept me forever.

 

This threat was never followed through, mind, and I did return home. You did, however, refuse to take me to school, and one day woke me up twenty minutes before I'd normally leave to tell me you weren't taking me. After another argument, I got myself to school by walking for an hour and spending an hour and a half on buses. I got there and sobbed to my head of year for the best part of an hour, only to have the school CALL YOU and tell her exactly what I'd told them, despite the fact I told the school NOT to call you, but to call another family member. I got home and you'd kicked me out. Again. Not only that, before you threw me out, you insisted that I no longer had flute lessons, as you paid for them and were no longer supporting me. You made me ring up my teacher to cancel them. When you decided I could have them back, you told my flute teacher you'd never said I couldn't have them. And, of course, within a week, I was back, living as some lodger in YOUR house. I was still going to meals at my sisters, though.

 

So, that almost brings us up to date. But how can I forget the events around Scott, the towel and the bedsheet? You'd always said "you should get a boyfriend like Scott." So, I did. You suddenly HATED Scott. Do you hate everyone and everything connected to me? Or was it because you knew I was on the pill? Either way, you hated him. But I love him, and he loves me. Thank god. The night I went to stay at his started as any other. I came in from school, and showered. I dried off using a towel, surely their primary function, and left it in the bathroom, still wet. I dressed and return to the bathroom, to find you priming yourself for a rant. I, the hell-child I so obviously am, had left a WET TOWEL on the towel rack in the bathroom, after having a shower. In which I got wet. This was obviously enough for you to throw me out for the third time, but before I left, I had to put bedsheets on my bed. Your logic, again, astounded me. Why did my bed need bedsheets if I wasn't sleeping there that night, or, by the sounds of it, a few nights? I refused, packed and left.

 

Which brings us up to date. The reasons are clear as crystal, the consequences have been and gone. I'm sitting here, in a room that's not mine, telling you this. You were right about the sex, you were right about the drink, you were right about the weed. I do. When you're sorry, so am I. Until then, I'm out of here. I'm not going to kill myself, because there are too many reasons to live. I'm just going to pretend that you never happened. That you don't exist. It hurts, doesn't it? 'Constructive criticism', you told my sister. Sure. Because we all believe you. Whatever it is, it's just not nice to be a victim of it all the time. So, I answered your prayers, I solved all your problems. I'm gone.

 

Have a nice life.

Author's Note

Based on true events of one life, and the final paragraph is the only fiction in the story. Then, only the last part.

Reviews

[Annie K.]

That was really good. I love your style of writing in this story. Each paragraph is really brief, but it paints a really clear picture. You are very precise with words and that makes your writing strong. I love the paragraph about Scott and getting a boyfriend like him. The protagonist is very frank and I love that. Very well written, you did a fantastic job! Thanks for your review earlier!

[Forest Green]

Sounds like the ending of the relationship is just what the doctor ordered...controlling and manipulating...I've seen it play out in a similar way.

You have a nice story here...