I was playing with a purple key chain - an object of my imagination, a trick of my memories, for I know that I never owned one - while my mother walked through the living room and cleared away here and there a couple of books, magazines, water bottles and maps.
"Your father is ill," she said, and grabbed a green folder, threw into it a quick look and then set it to the other in the closet, "you should visit him."
"Papa Come visit me when I have the flu, in bed while sipping your disgusting tomato soup? "
She sighed loudly and sat on one of the sofas and watched me intently. "He is sick. His wife has tried several times to reach you. "
" Oh, I did. "Will he die now?"
"How can you contact with such a facial expression asking if your father is dying?"
I pulled a pout and repeated the question. She gave me no answer but got up and proceeded to clean up the living room. "You should see him. Whether he died or not. you should do this because it is your father and because he would be pleased determined. "
" Do you remember? Last summer, when he hit me again and did you mean then that I should never have to drive him and his happy, happy family? "
"I remember this." She sounded irritated and annoyed her voice reminded me of myself. "Anyway."
I wanted her to say that I would not go. Wanted with their fight and then stomp angrily to my room, slam the door shut behind me, close listening, loud music, smoke crack and go down a little later to her and tell her that she was alone to blame, that I had become so .
that they had admitted that my father cut my wings and ausrupfte that she had accepted that my life in ruins before, was behind me. I wanted to yell at her and give her a slap. You spit.
I wanted to tell her that I needed her as a mother. I wanted to tell her that she should support me, to help me come to terms with my life. come with me to clear.
I wanted to beat and beat and rip up and suffocate. Wanted to see how they died painfully in my hands, just like I had died. Because she deserved it.
Instead, I shook my head - shook and shook and shook - to my mind from my ears fell next to me and shy and ashamed, hid under the carpet. I shook my head - shook and shook and shook - to the fear of what I wanted to me what I had imagined, and went as cold water ran down to my spine.
"I do not want that Daddy died," I whispered - because I was afraid someone might hear it. The walls, the house, the neighbors, my little innocent self that was sitting on the floor and stroking the new kittens.
"Your father is ill," she said, and grabbed a green folder, threw into it a quick look and then set it to the other in the closet, "you should visit him."
"Papa Come visit me when I have the flu, in bed while sipping your disgusting tomato soup? "
She sighed loudly and sat on one of the sofas and watched me intently. "He is sick. His wife has tried several times to reach you. "
" Oh, I did. "Will he die now?"
"How can you contact with such a facial expression asking if your father is dying?"
I pulled a pout and repeated the question. She gave me no answer but got up and proceeded to clean up the living room. "You should see him. Whether he died or not. you should do this because it is your father and because he would be pleased determined. "
" Do you remember? Last summer, when he hit me again and did you mean then that I should never have to drive him and his happy, happy family? "
"I remember this." She sounded irritated and annoyed her voice reminded me of myself. "Anyway."
I wanted her to say that I would not go. Wanted with their fight and then stomp angrily to my room, slam the door shut behind me, close listening, loud music, smoke crack and go down a little later to her and tell her that she was alone to blame, that I had become so .
that they had admitted that my father cut my wings and ausrupfte that she had accepted that my life in ruins before, was behind me. I wanted to yell at her and give her a slap. You spit.
I wanted to tell her that I needed her as a mother. I wanted to tell her that she should support me, to help me come to terms with my life. come with me to clear.
I wanted to beat and beat and rip up and suffocate. Wanted to see how they died painfully in my hands, just like I had died. Because she deserved it.
Instead, I shook my head - shook and shook and shook - to my mind from my ears fell next to me and shy and ashamed, hid under the carpet. I shook my head - shook and shook and shook - to the fear of what I wanted to me what I had imagined, and went as cold water ran down to my spine.
"I do not want that Daddy died," I whispered - because I was afraid someone might hear it. The walls, the house, the neighbors, my little innocent self that was sitting on the floor and stroking the new kittens.
My mother admitted the photo album that I had given her for her birthday, in the closet and shrugged his shoulders. 'Visit' him. "
" Will I, "I answered slowly and I saw my younger looking face, as she looked at me with a blank look.
" Will I, "I answered slowly and I saw my younger looking face, as she looked at me with a blank look.
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