Reaped

I really wanted to stay home.
I wanted to go to GMU like my dad did. I wanted to marry the woman I loved. I wanted to raise children with her, and give them something I never could have. I wanted to have a career as a detective, a full one, so that when my time came, I could bow out graciously and retire to the country side with my lovely wife and die knowing I did something good, something right.
And then you grow up, realizing how stupid you were to think that your dreams could be real.
Why I'm writing this is, where I am now, I can't see myself living past 30. I'm sick, and I'm tired. The things I've caused, things I did and didn't do. Mostly its the things that I tried to make right and only made unclean. I think about them every day, and if i'm ever going to make things right, i'm going to have to start by explaining myself.
I'm not a murderer, and i'm not a bad person. I know this better than anyone, but sometimes it's hard to convince myself why.
I know I won't see 30, but if for some reason I decide I wanna live to be 31, I should get started.

1
It happens at home. everything does. I've never told anyone what happened in D.C, and anybody that knows or I did tell is either dead or in a coma they're never going to come out of. That's why this is so important-I'm the only one left to tell the story, and if I don't tell it soon, then the tale goes with me to the grave. Like my dad.

Evil prevails when good men fail to act. Ron, when will you act?

It's what's written on my dad's grave. The police found it written on a piece of paper in his breast pocket. My Dad's last words, unspoken. Written. As if he was prepared for this. He doesn't mention my mother, and he doesn't mention my unborn sister Sera. The name he drops is the one person who hates him.
What happened after my dad died is, everybody died. After he died, he left behind a dark cloud over our shitty little townhouse-hold that's only grown with time, like a stain on your favorite shirt you can't get out. My mom became addicted to heroin, falling into an almost schizophrenic state of mind about her using. She was either so sick, she was shaking and couldn't stand by herself, or so unnaturally calm you could tell her to fuck her mother and she would just look at you and smile. If you didn't think (or know) she was on something, you were either deaf, dumb, blind or dead. I think the fact that I was mentioned in his last agenda was apart of her situation. Most of her friends had forsaken her when they saw the condition she was in. I don't blame them; I wouldn't want to hold a conversation with a smack addict either. Try sitting down with her at the dinner table when she's strung out.
Go ahead.
I dare you.
It's actually pretty easy. Just forget everything. Numb yourself. Lie to yourself.
And just like my mom, I became the ass-crack end of my friends jokes, the man in the pity stories at cocktail parties.
You know these stories. They start off "He used to be..." emphasise on "used to". It's worse than being the center of a sick rumor. At least with a rumor, you know it's not true. Not that I had many friends to begin with, but when the only friend you have abandons you, you lose faith and half your sanity. Obviously my grades weren't too hot either, adding on to my mom's excuse's. I usually forged my report cards to keep her happy, although whether my grades were ligit or not, it was never enough.
And Sera. Poor sweet Sera. She was the sun peeking from the clouds after the storm. Sweet little thing- if it weren't for her, I don't know we would've survived. She was born a few months after dad died. When three lives die, one begins. She never seemed bothered by not knowing her dad, or at least if she did, she hid it for our sake. And she didn't care that some of the kids really gave her shit, which is way more than what I can say. When all else seemed dark and hopeless, Sera would do everything in her power to make you feel needed. Some parents called their kids "Sweetie Pie", others "Angel", but we called Sera by what she was. A "Dandelion" in a dirt patch.

A normal day in Life After Dad would start with you waking up at 5 in the morning to take care of your mom. Mondays through thursdays, she wake's up kicking and screaming. The sound of her screaming from come down is listening to a sane and beautiful mind being torn apart, slowly and painfully. This is knowing she used to be your mom. It's an ugly alarm, but luckily your running towards her room so fast you don't have time to think about it, and thankfully Dandelion doesn't have to hear this because she's such a deep sleeper. It's a blessing she won't come to appreciate until later in life.
You run towards her room, finding exactly what you expected. She's sprawled on her bed, sheets thrown off, pillow torn from her teeth gnawing at the fabric to focus her mind elsewhere. Her hair, once the same wine red as your own, is dull and wild like fire, sticking out, stiff with drool. The oversized MC5 shirt she wears is falling off her shoulder, and doesn't do anything to cover the track marks on her legs. Her limbs are too skinny, yellow with use. It's disgusting, but you stare any way because it keeps your mind off her face, so mangled with pain, both physical and emotional, and twisted into a face crazy without medication. It's something you'll try not to think about.
Her hair is your hair.
Her eyes are yours.
This could be you.
You don't stand long. You're in her drawer, looking for the spoon, lighter , needle and baggie full of heroin she keeps in a leather box. You look for it as fast as you can, to stop this woman from moaning and crying. You don't want her to wake up Dandelion. How would you be an able to explain to her what you were doing to mommy? And you hate that you can't find it because it's never in the same damn spot you put it last night. By now she's either chewing her screams on the pillow with tears cutting down her face, or she's grabbed your hand, whispering, almost talking but not quite, "please, you don't know what this is like. Ron, please, please hurry up, please". It sounds like a ghost is talking through rotting vocal chords, she's been screaming so much over the years. It's disgusting. You speed up just to get her hand off your wrist.
When you finally find it, you throw it open and begin putting the china white in the spoon, lighter in hand. And the woman, she let's go because she doesn't want you to screw up. And she watches. She watches the white heat up and you feeding it into the syringe, she watches with hungry eyes. You hand her the needle because you don't want to do it for her, you can't. Pulling out a bottle of alcohol and cotton puffs, you wait for her to find a spot on her skin to inject. If you're lucky, you can convince her to at least let you clean it first, since you have no idea where she keeps getting the syringes. Most times you can't, and when she injects it, she stops. The kicking and moaning stops, and you can see the pain melt away. It's in her face. Her eyes close and she smiles. She finds the peace she can't find anywhere else.
It's by this time that if you haven't already left while she was injecting, she starts talking. She'll ask questions; "So, what did you do yesterday?" "How is school?" "What did you and Sera do?", thing's like that. Then you can just tune her out, nodding and smiling when necassary. After about ten, fifteen minutes, you interrupt her, saying "I gotta get ready for school", and kiss her on her hot, sweaty forehead and walk as fast as you can. On your way out the door, you know she's calling weakly "I love you", but you know how high she is and how nothing she says is worth shit. You try to ignore it, but it hurts. Besides, when the lone parent you have is a catered addict, so bad she needs you to feed the junk to her, you know their is no way in hell you can give her the help she needs. You don't need to even think about it at this point- you know this the way you know your ABC's. Walking towards the kitchen you prepare their breakfast, because if mommie tries to make Dandelion pancakes, she'll set the house on fire. Week days its poptarts, weekends are waffles. You place breakfast on the table, and head to your Dandelion's room.
She's still asleep. You have to feel bad for her-this is the only life she'll know.
A kid needs their childhood.
You walk up to her, knowing you try to give it to the best of your ability, and it's still not good enough. You want to give her more, but more would be asking for a happy mom. You know this like your ABC's. You don't need to think too hard about it. And stroking her hair, bloated tears creeping down your face, you give her a loving kiss and walk out the door with your stuff.
And this is just your morning. Their's a long fucking day ahead of you. There always is.