Relive the memorys

To mum, James was a person with character; a journal bursting with pure writing and vivid photographs. But now she knew that if she cut the pages into pieces his true diseased thoughts would pour out like blood.

“Get out of my house. I don’t love you, I never did!” James spat these words with pure distaste as he looked at my mother. That was it; my sister was in front of him before I had the chance to taste the poison flowing from his lips. She was livid. She bundled together all her dire memories and threw them back in one rapid movement. I couldn’t help but respect her. There I was, completely rooted to the spot, struggling to unlock the anger I had worked so hard to suppress while she was there defending our mother. I had never felt so useless. I stood watching his sneer turn into a mocking grin. I felt like I was watching a movie and feeling the emotions but not being able to step in. James wasn’t fazed, not shocked, not angry. He just sat at his throne, with an aura of complete wickedness, looking down on his innocent civilians. I could feel the embers inside of me ignite, spreading to every particle of my trembling body. He did not deserve us. My heart lurched as I looked over to Mum. Her weak foundations were wavering, threatening to send her crumbling downwards. When I looked into her glistening eyes, I felt my self diving deep within. I waded in her emotions and felt my self pitying thoughts float away with the current of guilt and new found appreciation.

For the last months I had let my bitterness choke me, leaving me grasping for air. Until now. All Mum truly desired was a small piece of security and a roof over our heads. She yearned to give us a father figure that could fill the gap left my own Dad, a person too corrupt to portray any love or appreciation to any one but his materialistic goods. To us, Dad was like an empty book that refused to be written in. To Mum, James was a person with character; a journal bursting with pure writing and vivid photographs. But now she knew that if she cut the pages into pieces his true diseased thoughts would pour out like blood. As Mum hid in the corner of James's kingdom I knew this place was no longer a home.

That was the day we ran from his stronghold. We left him to deal with his guilt, a guilt so strong that would in time seep through every pore of his being. He was left in a house with no laughter, no smiles, and no love. James had bipolar and beyond the shroud of illness was a man worthy of good fortune. But the shroud had become so dense that it had lost all transparency. At that moment, we knew it was time to put down our tattered gloves and stop fighting.





The whirlwind of memories settle back down in the back of my head, silent and tranquil. Never have I felt so at peace. I take a deep breath and open the gate. It talks to me in its own creaky words, welcoming me back to the small miner’s cottage that was once my home. I am ready. I am ready to talk to James again.