Prologue: Two-Toned

Well this is something new I found hidden away in my LONG list of weird writing... Very very old piece I think I'll try and update.

            I stood alone, the usual urban dictionary grasped in hand and thick playing cards stacked high on the table in an untouched formation.  Fluorescent moonlight flooded the room, proceeding to gleam into my eyes as I stared endlessly out the massive window with nothing but a small humming from the heater to be heard. It had been a sleepless night filled with tedious thoughts of violence and confusion. Mostly from my past, others… not so much. 
            I was always confused, ever since I was a child; searching for answers to my questions and suffering the consequences that followed. A smack on the hand, a grounding, or locking me away from my friends until further notice seemed to be the thing... It happened often, more than I thought possible actually. I had grown angry over the years wondering why I had been put through these consequences.    

            I would yell and throw things on the ground or even break bottles over the counter. I even remember saying "Why are you doing this to me? Why are you keeping me from the world?" She -my mother- would respond with the usual "Because you did something wrong" in a calming but empty voice. After screeching and demanding explanations over a few months I stopped all together. I stopped doing anything that would potentially get me in trouble, stopped seeing my friends and stopped everything. Things I loved most, things like talking, asking questions and being curious.

            Anything I loved, I put aside. My mother worried horribly at this fact because I refused to speak eventually. It only brought questions, which brought my problems… Yes. But it was a bittersweet thing for me, I was more curious that ever doing this. Watching, studying how people reacted and respond to my atrocious ways was incredible. But the more and more I continued I hurt my mother. Was it revenge that fueled me? The thoughts of anger she gave me or the curiosity it gave me? Seeing life from a different view was more it than anything. Eventually people assumed I had gone mute or deaf and just did their best to get my attention and my “few” gestures here and there.

            She had wronged me yes, but it only made me more unsure about my biggest question I had from the start - How had I wronged her? She could cry, and cry every night. When she saw me, she'd turn away and cringe. Her eyes, dripping with tears would look blurred with a pale shade of blue, just as mine did. She'd ask me questions I knew the answer to but I’d turn away and act as if I didn't hear her or turn up my music… I had turned our lives into a living hell for almost four long years. Eventually I wasn't sure what to say. When I wanted to talk, I couldn't. The words never formed on my tongue; I'd open my mouth, and simply cry. 
            I had never figured out what I had done wrong. My father was never around and my mother was in a terminal state of depression. I absently wondered if her mind was even around because I was unable to tell. "What did I do wrong" was the first question I asked her, years after I had grown and moved out. Was it too much? I'd thought so. Was it worth it? No. Why did I ask? I had too. I have answered these questions to myself, sitting in wait for her to respond or even acknowledge me. I could tell her mind was slipping but I was so infuriated I had to know. I wanted to know. Would I ever know? This, I didn't know.

Author's Note

As I said before, this is fairly old and I'm not exactly sure were I'm going with it but.. Kinda a bit of a cliff hanger don't you think? I found myself wanting more as I read it a few times.

Then I realized I hadn't written anymore. Oops.