See You ThereA Story by Sophiefor a contestTo start off, this is for a contest where you have to write as your opposite. I am a 14 year old girl so, here I go, as a depressed 86 year old man.
January 8, 2012
I have lived a long life. But a life worth living? That's another question entirely. I was never loved. My wife married me for my money, and my children weren't even mine. But I kept living, living for money, hoping that the more money I had, maybe some happiness would tag along. But it never did. I hoped for a long time that happiness would find me some how. Change me, so I wasn't such a horrible, bitter old man whose young, pretty wife despised him. But I was, am. I often wonder if I took a life by living, if a baby that was born dead could have been alive, but because I existed, wasn't. I have wanted to die since the young age of four, a ghastly eighty-two years ago, when my parents died in an automobile accident. I lost all my will then, all my childhood. It dissipated, evaporated the second I heard the news. For my parents were the only things I had ever loved. Then, any joy or hope I had held onto, truly disappeared, when I worked up the courage (and the ability) to read my mother's old diary. This was seventy-eight dreadful years ago. She wrote horrible things, terrible things. I can quote them today. “Dear Diary, I am pregnant. I don't know how it happened, we were careful, I suppose. But how do I tell John, my poor loving husband that it is not his? That the child that is to be born in a matter of six months, is not his? Maybe I should drink, and kill it, so he never has to know. I can never love it, now that the affair is over. Mark was a horrible man, and I should have realized it at the start. But I was blinded by love. Maybe I should kill myself, so I don't have to live with the pain of killing a fetus...” That passage was about me, my father wasn't even my father. And then I learned something else. “Dear Diary, I gave birth yesterday. A boy, John Jr. But how can he be a Junior, when his father was named Mark?! He was born silent, and hope flooded me, maybe he was stillborn. The doctors ushered him to another room and didn't come out for a few minutes. A nurse came out and told me that he might not live. I cried, and everyone thought it was out of grief, of sadness, it was not. It was out of relief, happiness even, I wanted to laugh and thank the sky, but, I couldn't. Then further punishment came. The doctor came in holing a little blue blanket with a smiling, squirming baby inside. I was disgusted. The baby reached out to me grabbing at my nose. I pretended to smile and coo at the creature. But hatred bubbled inside of me...” My mother. Who I had loved so dearly, and so fervently, hated me. I lost the will to live. Then, seventy-two years ago, when I was 14, I read the final passage. “Dear Diary, This is the last entry I shall ever write, I hope Johnny doesn't find you, because if he does, he shall surely kill himself, and I don't want him following us. I'm going to hit a tree today, with the car, so I can be with John in heaven, without our son. Or, rather, my son. Mark has threatened to kill him, and when I told him to do so, he said if I wanted it so much, he wasn't going to, but he'd kill John. So goodbye, keep my secrets well, dear friend.” She killed him! SHE KILLED HIM! At least my “father” loved me! Did she hate me so much to cause me a life of misery?! What did I EVER do to her? I only loved her! It wasn't my fault I was born! I look down at the rope in my hands. I step onto the chair. If suicide really makes someone go to Hell, well, I'll see her there. © 2012 SophieAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
201 Views
10 Reviews Shelved in 1 Library
Added on March 18, 2012Last Updated on March 18, 2012 AuthorSophie-, MAAboutI'm 16 in my sophomore year of high school, I started on this site when i was 14, took about a year break and now i might be back, im just fixing my description because i was annoying as f**k last yea.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|