By Daniel C., Westfield, NJ
Author's note: This was actually an assignment from my English teacher which I was super ecstatic for. The... Show full author's note »
The OutcomeUnable to take the pain, I grabbed my shoes and took of the pointed knives stuck to my feet and carried the inhumane high-heels in my other hand. Arriving at the train station, I awaited the already planned train at 10:00. With the unwanted argument I was earlier by 3 hours. Huddled against the wall, I cried, wetting my dress with the pounds of make-up meant for me to look flawless. It was counterproductive when wet. I cried because of my response to my mother. “I should’ve been more mature, I should’ve been more respectful,” I chanted. I never felt more like a child, even when I needed the breast of my Mother to survive did I feel more independent.
The traffic crawled by as the crippling sunlight raining upon the steel city I now called home 3 long years later. Entering the building, someone got my attention.
“Another letter arrived for you,” the landlord proclaimed handing me the piece of neatly pressed paper, smoking on his favorite cherry-scented cigar. I tried balancing my weight to my left hand so that the baby would be undisturbed as I reached the letter from his lazy hand. The weight started to cough.
“Burney, please blow that thing out, chivalry is dead,” I stated, gently putting the blanket over my child’s mouth, wiping the new saliva sticking to its lip with every cough. Walking up the stairs, I struggled to properly balance myself out, very cautious with the little one. I opened the door to the apartment only to be greeted with the too familiar smell of alcohol. Dropping the letter in the pile created over a year, I walked to place the weight to its scheduled slumber. Slowly, its breathing got slower and slower, until I could hear nothing but a gentle snore from its stuffed nose. I smiled instinctively at the sleeping weight, a sight of pure beauty indeed as my Mother described it. I walking back through the kitchen situated in front of the door. Slowly, I organized the bottles placed out onto the counter into the cabinet, all with a very thick smell. I grabbed the letter placed down on the table to read the outside. “Another of Mother’s pleas for forgiveness, which I have yet to respond to,” I said to myself. She felt her actions will forever define how I view her, but that wasn’t the reason I wasn’t writing back. The embarrassment was too great, stronger than guilt in my opinion. The smell of failure was the overwhelming smog of alcohol floating through the apartment, leading me to the bedroom. I followed the track to see the man I will forever be reliant half-naked sleeping, drunk of course. This was my dazzling engineering career, my rebellious decision to marry a liberal ass I thought I could relate too on the college campus. The end result was a beautiful burden resting in the small pen in the other room. I now knew how it meant to fail; it was like the bitter smell of liquor in the tight room.