SerenityEver wanted a happy ending? Some people won't settle for anything less. What of those who just want everything to be normal, and pleasant? Those who don't care for happiness, just Serenity. If you cant comprehend my meaning, then this story isn't for you. This story is about a boy. A boy who only wanted the love of his mom, and the safety of a home. This story is about me.
I was born a bastard, the literal and appropriate meaning, to a mother and no father. My mom didn't know where or who my dad was. Mom was a cruel, and absolute bitter women. She never wanted anything to do with me; still not sure why she didn't just abort me. Mom hardly had anything to do with my life unless she had too. We lived with my grandmother and my older sister, Taylor. Taylor was obviously the favorite. Mom only wanted one child, a daughter, that's it. I was a "unwanted and uncared for mistake," well that's what she always told me. When Taylor did wrong Mom would always punish me even if mom knew it wasn't my fault, I would get the worst outcome.
My grandma was the only person to ever be nice to me my whole life. She tried her hardest to care for me when Mom neglected to do so. She bought me toys, clothes, and fed me when Mom wouldn't. Mom would become mad if she caught me eating "her" food. As a punishment she wouldn't let me eat for days. My grandma would sneak me food until Mom caught her one day. Mom beat her so bad with one of my toys she couldn't walk for weeks, and stayed in the hospital for one. As she was beating her I tried to stop it; as best a four-year-old could. I was screaming at her, "Mommy don't hurt her" as I pounded her legs with my child sized fists. Mom stopped a second, but only to slam the back side of her hand across my head, her knuckles leaving a distinctive outline on my skin.
Needless to say, Mom abused me quite often and "thorough", as she liked to call it, with little care to my well being and health. She would constantly tell me, "Your worthless, I wish I never had you." So the abuse was both physical and psychological. I would consider it more psychological. I would give anything to hear three words from her that I always had longed for, even if it meant a thousand more cuts and bruises. The damages she caused were great, and explosive. Mom was obviously bipolar and was diagnosed as a teenager to have schizophrenia.
The worst of Mom's horrid episodes came when I was only 5. I was playing with some car toys my grandmother had bought me. Mom was busy washing dishes; she hated that I wasn't old enough to do it for her, but never thought to make Taylor do it. I was playing on the floor behind her. I asked Mom if she wanted to play with me. She responded; "Why would I want to play with a dumb kid like you?" My sister laughed at the comment. Me, being the persistent and optimistic child I was, took one of my cars and held it up to Mom. "You can be this one it's my favorite." Oh, how I wish so heavily now that I hadn't done that. Mom became engulfed with rage after the question. She took the cast iron pot she was cleaning and slammed it into my head with all the force she had. My head split open above my eyes. I let out a cry knowing that it would just increase Moms aggression, but I couldn't contain it. Mom took the pot again, and hit me in the side of my skull. Everything went black. I can recall brief moments of consciousness, though they would fade as fast as they came. They were darkly blurred by the pour of blood coming from the open wound. Life stood still in those small moments.
I completely regained consciousness in the hospital three days later. The only person there waiting for me was my grandma. She had brought me Kit Kats, my favorite candy, and a Happy Meal from McDonalds. Probably the most memorable gifts of my life. The doctors said I was lucky to even be alive. My skull cracked in both places I was hit and I lost massive amounts of blood. I kept asking Grandma, "Where's Mommy? I didn't mean to make her so mad." Grandma just kept telling me she would be there soon; I knew she wouldn't. Mom didn't even want me to go to the hospital, Grandma took me. When I arrived home, the only thing my Mom said was, "I wish you would've died." I told her, "I'm so sorry that I made you mad Mom. I love you." She responded by making me clean my own blood stains off the kitchen floor. Though that was the worst episode Mom has ever had; It was only the second worst day of my life.
Two years later when I was seven came the worst. It was late, I was laying in bed trying to sleep. Earlier that day Mom had kicked me in the stomach, because Taylor had spilt tea on the couch. She was in one of her moods again. As I lye there, I heard a loud thump and a scream coming from the kitchen. I thought Mom had broken something and was mad at me again. Taylor and Grandma weren't home; Taylor went to her fathers house. Mom didn't trust Taylor's dad alone with her, so Grandma would always stay with her whenever she went. Mom started screaming my name, she sounded so angry. I hid under my covers; just waiting for her to come hurt me again. She was putting away left overs from dinner when she tripped. She fell and hit her head on the kitchen counter, then landed on a stake knife that was laying on the plate she was carrying. The knife cut upwards from her waist. It tore open her intestines and severed her spinal chord; rendering her paralyzed from the waist down. I can still remember her screams so vividly as she pleaded for my aid. I stayed in bed, hiding from her, with no idea she was dying. As she laid there drowning in a pool of her own blood; I was under my covers like a coward, crying. I wanted to go to her so bad, because part of me thought it would be different this time. I was always hoping it would be different each time she called for me. Maybe she would hug me and tell me how much she's always loved me, but I was too horrified to move. She stopped screaming eventually and I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up, and found her on the kitchen floor still, and covered in blood. She was in the same spot where she had almost killed me with a frying pan. Ironic. I screamed and yelled, then picked her head up. I begged her to wake up, "Mommy, stop sleeping, please! I'll make you breakfast, just please Mommy get up! I love you!" She didn't move. I cried for a couple hours, holding my dead Moms hand in mine. The only thing I could think to do was walk to our neighbors house; a mile up the road. So I did, when I finally arrived I knocked on the door. When they answered they were shocked to see me covered in blood, and immediately panicked. I told them Mom was laying on the floor, hurt, and wouldn't wake up. They drove to my house with me. When they saw her laying there all they could do was stare at me. As if I had caused this drastic fate to my own mother. Me, a seven year old. After they collected themselves they told me everything was going to be fine. They called the cops and they arrived at the house shortly after. I explained to one officer the events that unfolded the night before, and how I found Mom that morning. The cop was astounded by the tragedy, he couldn't understand why I didn't go to my mother. Everyone was treating me like a villain, everyone blamed me. Later my sister and grandma arrived; they were crying and holding each other. My grandma ran to me and held me in her arms as I cried against her. I explained to her what happened, how I didn't answer Mom. When I was finished with the story Grandma's expression turned bitter. She dropped me from her arms and pushed me onto the ground. "It's all your fault," she said, "She was right about you, you're worthless." After the police left, my sister beat me until she grew tired. The next day, Grandma did the same. Afterwards, I was covered in bruises, and found pain in any movement I made. They kept screaming, always telling me it was my fault. I believe they're correct; I killed my own mom. If I wasn't so afraid I could have saved her life.
I lived seldomly for months after those events. They put a new word into my head, a new idea. Suicide. Can you imagine an eight-year-old boy thinking of such a horrid thing? I began to picture ways of doing this. Wondering how better off everyone would be without me.
On my ninth birthday my Grandma hit me, my sister hit me, and I did the unspeakable. I woke up that morning with those dark thoughts in my mind. I ate breakfast, alone like I always did. Grandma told me it was my birthday, and I shouldn't be alive. Taylor said mom should have killed me; before I killed her. It's hard for a nine-year-old to be accustomed to no one loving them, and having to live with the idea that they killed their own mom. I turned dark, and depressed. I saw her everywhere. I could always hear her voice; taunting me to kill myself every chance she got. She was always telling me I deserve it and how much she hated me. So on that birthday, shortly after my sister hit me, I sat in my kitchen all alone; talking to my dead Mom. She told me it was time to finally end this worthless life, so that I would quit being such a heavy burden on Taylor and Grandma. The knife Mom had died on was laying beside me. I began to play with it; running the cold metal across my skin. She started screaming for me to do it; I started crying. Her screams were so loud and painful, every word felt like a knife in my chest. I lifted the blade to my throat, goose bumps formed at the blades cold touch. I screamed, "I love you Mom!" from the top of my voice and quickly jerked the blade across the skin on my neck. It was painful and appalling, the blade was jagged and ripped more skin of my neck then it had cut. I gripped my neck with both hands; dropping the knife to the floor. Blood sprayed between my fingers and all over the kitchen. I expected to still see Mom there, hearing her making some horrible remark, or praising me for the dark deed. She was no where in sight, and far out of mind. Everything was as quiet as the darkness that had been living inside me for so long. As I lost an overwhelming amount of blood the pain slowly suppressed to nothingness. It felt as if all my demons were draining from me along with the blood. I was turning into my old persistent, caring, optimistic self. Then there was emptiness. Peace. The greatest blessing I had my whole life was in those few second; where i hung between life and death. Those few seconds of peace made me content with this disgraceful moment. Everything slowly went black, I fell to the ground. As I let out my final breath a smile spread across my face. I let go of my pain, my sorrow. I realized it didn't matter whether Mom was right. All that mattered is that I wasn't wrong.
This was my happy ending.
This is my Serenity.