Great, just fucking great.
Mother dearest is reading through my fucking messages on my phone, isn't it absolutely -wonderful- to have no fucking privacy? News flash mother! I'M A TEENAGER AND I DO HAVE HORMONES!
She wants me to be the perfect little innocent child I was, the one that doesn't know anything about fucking boys, doesn't want anything to do with them or ...you know. Consequently, she wants me to be as pure as a fucking six year old, her 'baby'.
I FUCKING HATE HER! I don't care what anyone says, I've had it. I hate her i hate her i hate her i hate her i hate her i hate her i hate her. I HATE HER.
Now she's yelling at me. great. Isn't this fan-bloody-fucking-tastic? This is it, the final fucking straw.
Confiscating my phone, reading my messages, invading my FUCKING PRIVACY. Fine. I'm gone. From her life, from all your lives. Sorry if this hurts any of you, but this is what I have to do.
I have to. Don't you see? I can't fucking stand this any more.
Sorry for not telling you sooner, all of you, but I love you. There should be more love in the world. More joy.
I'm sorry for the sadness I'm no doubt causing, but I can't deal with this, not any more. I give up, she's won.
Goodbye.
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Come think, come ponder, perhaps, you'll understand?
I know you!
2 comments:
Angela, if you read this, I want you to call me. My phone number is
0408 937 012 or
9493 0868
Borrow someone's phone, use a neighbour's, just get in contact with me.
I'm extremely worried about you. Very few of us like the lives we have, but if you can think of times when you've been truly happy, when you've been away from all that you hate, just try and recall a moment when it happened and recreate that feeling. Surely that's worth living for.
You're moving out soon- you mustn't let her ruin a life that is so close to breaking free. I'll buy you a new phone- you can hide it from her. Meanwhile, I need you to call me, or email me, or send me a text.
Please take care Angela. I love you too.
She's gone.
So is my world.
No, this isn't an eulogy. I don't even know for certain she's dead - or do I? I can feel it. It's a black hole in my gut. It defies everything, it defies my language, it defies my articulateness.
Angela. Such a pretty name. Now all I have is memories and emptiness. Such a funny feeling, really, to be gone inside but not outside. Why not equalize? Nah. My heart is pounding so badly I'll probably have an attack soon, and then I won't even need to harm myself.
Everyone else, don't try. You can't breathe life into the dead. And now I can't breathe life into the living, either.
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