Troubled with Tattoos

I stepped up the stoned path of our driveway that led to the very front door of our country styled home. The shingles were now falling off, and the once cream-colored paint was now chipping away. Snow had just set on the dirt, leaving a few inches of winter left behind. It was January, and just when I thought things could get brighter, they didn't.

Ashton was still dead, his small grave lay miles away with fresh flowers and a giant stone set above it. That pain in my chest still came whenever I saw younger children playing. You should be down here bud, not up there, I would think to myself. But I know I can't take back time and redo that night. The night that changed my life forever.

I unlocked the big wooden door and entered the old house. The place that used to smell like sweet cinnamon and sometimes pumpkin pie now reeked of alcohol and the foul stench of cigarettes. Some would ask me, "What happened to your family?" I would answer, "life, death, sickness. Make your pick."

Nowadays I just felt emotionless, like someone just ripped my heart out putting in some mechanical one. I wasn't happy, but I wasn't exactly sad. I was empty.

They diagnosed Ashton with leukemia at the young age of five. He didn't quite understand why Mommy and Daddy cried every night, or why his big sister had to skip school just to watch over him. Ash was too young to be held back from such things, but he still had fun like any other child would. He was the kid who made miserable elders smile for the first time in years, and the kid who would stop you on the sidewalk just to ask how your day was. It's always the good who die young.

A year and a half later, his illness became worse. He wasn't having fun anymore, his curly blonde hair was now gone, and all his bright smiles were forced.

"When will I get better?" He'd ask from his hospital bed.

"Soon bud, soon," I'd say, caressing his head with watery eyes.

Just two nights before he was supposed to be sent home from the hospital, Ash had died unexpectedly, leaving my family heartbroken. We didn't have enough time to properly say goodbye, let alone tell him how much we loved him, and how Grandma would watch over him. Losing someone, especially your younger brother, is something that nobody wants to experience. But, letting go was even harder.

My parents for one could not let go. Their little boy was gone, and there was nothing that they could do to bring him back. They began to turn to more extreme measures just to take the pain away; drugs, cigarettes, and even tons of alcohol. I missed so many nights of sleep and even missed out on school and birthday parties because of the overwhelming amount of pain that losing my little brother had caused me. I had fallen into a hole of depression, and I couldn't get out of it.

But what happened next was definitely something I wasn't expecting.

"Mom? Dad?" I had called out one day, examining all the empty cans and pieces of broken glass that lay scattered on the floor. It looked like a tornado had hit only the Morris household. The lights were off, giving an eerie look to the once welcoming home, and pictures of our once-smiling family were now smashed and thrown onto the floor. But this is what I would come home to everyday now.

I picked up the old portrait that was taken when Ashton was only a baby. Mom held his fragile body in her skinny arms, while Dad stood next to her with his hand on her right shoulder. They stood me in front of him, with my blonde hair set in two braids, and my young, crooked teeth showing as I smiled at the camera.

I put the picture back on its shelf, standing straight up. That was my favorite picture.

My throat grew dry from dehydration, so I dropped off my school bag next to the door and made my way into the kitchen. Other than my room, the kitchen was the cleanest area in the house. The tiles were so dirty, that you could easily wipe your finger across it and see for yourself just how dusty this place had become. Nobody bothers to clean this place anymore. Nobody even cared.

I opened the wooden cabinet to retrieve a glass. There was only one left.

I turned around to open the fridge, but to my surprise, came face-to-face with something much different, scarier than a simple fridge. And at that moment, I realized just what my parent's pain had finally come to:

Insanity.

I shrieked, staring wide-eyed at my mother. She had a knife firmly clenched in her hand as she pointed it at me, a menacing look in her eye. I had never been so scared in my life. I gulped loudly as my heart pounded against my chest.

"Mom, wh-what are you doing?" I hesitated. I don't think my heart had ever beat this fast before.

"It's all your fault," her cracked lips spoke. Her eyes displayed a look of anger, hurt, and so much sadness. She kept the knife in place as she moved around me to the other side. Her once smiling eyes were now dull and empty as she stared at me as if she didn't even know who I was. I felt like I didn't know her anymore either. In fact, I did not understand who she had become.

"You don't want to do this, Mom" I kept my voice strong. Surely a mother wouldn't hurt her own daughter, right? At least that's what I thought. But for the past year, she had proven me wrong.

"I don't?" She challenged me; her tone was sarcastic. I held out a hand to defend myself, but the other hand firmly grasped the cup. Father wasn't here, he was the one who managed to calm my mom down during times like these.

"No, no, Mom. Don't you remember when we were a happy family? When Ash would come home with a big smile on his face, excited to see us all? Imagine what he would think of us now." I spoke lightly as my voice quivered. My father always brought up old memories to calm my mother. My mother has psychotic episodes numerous times a week, it became a new normal for us.

Her chest rose quickly as her eyes drifted off into space. She was remembering all the memories we had of Ash, all the holidays, birthdays, rainy days, summer days, snow days, every day. I took that as an opportunity to take the knife away from her. I looked up, hesitant to any sudden movement. My hand was only a few inches away from the knife when my mom suddenly snapped out of her little reverie.

"No, no, he's dead! He's dead! He's dead!" She wailed her arm around, slicing my forearm at the movement.

I hissed in pain as blood trickled down my arm and onto the stained tiles. Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. My mothers fits weren't usually physical.

My own mother just cut me with a knife. I stared at her in shock as she looked completely unaffected, relieved almost. Like she had been dreaming of this since he passed.

"You know, I wish it was you who got sick, not him. Not my baby!" she yelled as tears continued to fall down her face. Her frail body rose in anger and she held up the bloody knife, once again aiming it at me. She took a step forward as I took a step back.

The stinging sensation on my arm was distracting me, causing my mom to corner me up against the counter. I wrapped my hand around the glass, using it as my only way out.

She charged at me, her brown eyes flaring with revenge. I cried out, and not knowing what else to do, threw the glass cup at her. I cried as I heard the glass shatter and the sound of her body falling onto the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, too scared to see the damage I've done.

I had to do it, I had to save myself.

I ran out of the room, tears streaming down my face, not wanting to see the mess. I knew my mother was on the floor but I didn't know if I had injured her or scared her. My mother was famous for playing the victim.

I picked up my schoolbag, throwing it over my shoulders and bolting out of the door of my home. That home lost its meaning when Ashton stopped walking through its doors. But it didn't have to be that way, I thought. My mother didn't have to make everyone suffer from her own pain.

I had my own pain to endure. Did she forget that I had lost a brother too? Not only did she lose her son, but she had also just lost her daughter too. But she wouldn't care, my mother had always been different with me. I had walked into countless arguments between my parents about how my mother wanted me sent to boarding school. She made it clear she never wanted a daughter even before Ashton was sick.

The moment I left that house, I decided that I would tell no one what happened, nor was I ever going to return. But little did I know, I'd end up doing both, eventually.