Construction 101 - Cassidy Shay (free novels TXT) 📗

gap to fill. Always. You have the important beams, and the spaces in between.
When you tell your story, the gaps are also there. Always. You have the defining moments. And in between, you have the parts that, while unimportant by themselves, are very, very important to the story as a whole.
So while you're telling your story, you have to figure out how to fill in those gaps. Do you just leave them out, missing puzzle pieces that leave the audience confused? Do you create a new memoir? Or do you just state the missing pieces?
For now, I'll just give you the facts. Straight up, no fooling around. So here are the facts:
Shelsey became a troublemaker. And that's the nice way of saying it. We've gone through several stages of sharing rooms or not, depending on how my mom wants to have the bedrooms set up. And, well, she's my sister. I don't know what else to say.
Well, now that I'm done with that gap, I'll move on. To another time, another place, where gaps were created. I'm moving way way forward, to last year. Last year, when things just really fell apart.

________________________________________________________________________________

You feel abandoned
Lost
Unloved
Betrayed by your blood
Uncared for
Scared
Because of what he did
He left you alone
Deserted
Hurt
No remorse or regret
Is seen in the blue orbs
You call his eyes
Horrible
Cruel
Is what you think
"Dad" or
"Daddy"
Is what you say
You never blamed yourself
That all falls on him
But he still won't
Pick up the pieces of
Your shattered heart.
Heartless
Monstrous
That's how he acts
Like you aren't his child
Doesn't have your back
He used to care
Used to love
Support
Protect
But that's all gone
Now that he's left
He betrayed you
Lost
Alone
Afraid
Without regard for
Your shattered heart.
You're left to raise his children
Dependent
Young
Defenseless
He comes by for the weekend
Happy
Excited
When he has
No right to be
You want to
Scream
Run
Hide
So you don't
Have to stand and wait
As he breaks into smaller pieces
What already was
Your shattered heart.

Where should I change the mood?

Okay, so now you've read a depressing poem about my dad (not going to fill in that gap. Because, well, it's really just too big. I'll just put a sunroof in so the rain doesn't get it).
But where do I go now? Do I bring in a happy memory? Or do I keep it gloomy for a while, create a pattern, and then smash it with a happy memory? I think I'll do that. Because otherwise I'll run out of happy memories before I'm done with the bad ones. So the end of this book would just be... very, very depressing.
It's not that my life is completely horrible. Actually, it's pretty good. But the defining moments, the ones that make me me, are the ones that are sad. The happy ones are just there. Not important by themselves.
By themselves, people can cause damage. They can and will do it without any help. But it becomes truly, forever damaging, when you not only allow others to damage you, but you also allow you to damage yourself.

________________________________________________________________________________

As the needle slides in and pulls the thread through, I smile. Not because I gave in again, but because now, I can forget.
As the needle once again slides into my hand, I wince at rare drop of blood. I usually don’t dig deep enough for that. I don’t want my skin to be ruined by scars, so I go just deep enough, but not too deep.
Deep enough to make me forget about the past few months, but not so deep that it draws out the crimson liquid that rushes through my veins.
With my mom in the hospital, and my dad always working, and trying to raise my baby brother, the stress gets to be too much for a small eleven-year-old. I can feel it in my palms- a small, tingly feeling, like ants crawling under my skin.
I’ve always been disgusted when I hear about people cutting, or see the proof myself. I never understood why you’d want to be labeled as an “emo,” or leave scars behind, scars that could never be erased. I guess some of these feelings were still there when I started, because no matter what, I still refused to leave scars.
I tell myself that I’m not like those other people. That because there’s nothing left behind, I’m still better than they are, and I’m still a stronger person. But deep down, I know that I’m just as weak as they are.
As the cool metal slides through a final time, I look at the embroidered letter on my hand. A dark red H, his last initial, stands out against the pale skin on my palm, absorbing the tingling feeling. Why I chose his initial, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. The tingling is gone now, and for the moment, so it the stress.
I’ll wait a while before removing the thread, and then I’ll wait until the skin heals again. Maybe by that time, it might take two letters to relieve the stress that builds and multiplies each day. Maybe even three.
I tie the knot, rub my fingertips along it, and then fold my hand up. I hide my needle and thread and leave the room. With Lawson jumping around, Dad working on his lap top, and Chelsea yelling at Lawson, I know it won’t be long before the tingling is once again too strong to bear. That it won’t be long before the needle once again pierces my skin, before the thread slides through.

Woah, right?

Okay, so after reading that, you might think I'm kinda crazy. Because what kind of person sews letters into their skin? Not many people do. But... *takes a deep breath* I was stressed.
It was 6th grade. I was eleven. And woke up early in the morning, got ready for school. After school I went to cheer practice, and as soon as I got home I had to make sure that we had dinner ready. If it wasn't ready, I had to make it. I made sure my little brother's diapers were changed, and made sure my little sister got her homework done. I made sure everyone was showered and had their teeth brushed. The dogs got fed, the kitchen got cleaned, the mess in the living room remained limited. Because of me. The little girl in sixth grade.
Now you're probably wondering where my parents were during all of this. Well, my dad started working from home and trying to find other jobs. While we were at school, he watched Lawson, and when we came home he retired to his room and did his work. He wasn't really there.
And mom? Well... that's not a gap to fill. That's an entire story by itself.

________________________________________________________________________________

Home from school and cheer. Make dinner. Is Shelsey's homework done? Did Lawson get a bath today? Are the dishes done? Dogs fed? Pellets in the stove?

Finally, after all of this, I can relax. Tomorrow is Saturday.

Tomorrow, we will pile into the car and drive for an hour to the hospital, where my mom waits, all alone in her bed. Tomorrow, we will all give her a hug and a kiss, mutter an "I love you" before launching into conversation about how our weeks went. Tomorrow, we will try to ignore the look Mom's face when Lawson won't reach for her, when he presses himself against the wall farthest away from her that he can get.

At two years old, Lawson doesn't understand that Mom has to be here in this room in the strange building. All he knows is that Mommy isn't at home. She's abandoned him. And he's determined not to let it happen again.

My mom never had good luck with her pregnancies. We all popped out too early. After Lawson was born at 28 weeks, the doctor decided that it would be best to have my mom on bed rest for almost the entire duration of her next pregnancy. When she wasn't staying in bed at home, the doctor insisted that she stay in the hospital until the baby was born.

The baby stayed in the womb for 36 weeks today. Out of those 36 weeks, 9 were spent in the hospital.

Nine weekends of visiting Mom. Nine weekends of missed sleepovers and birthday parties. Nine Mondays of heading back to school and having to give everyone an update on how Mom's going. Nine Tuesdays of getting back into the groove of the small town after of a weekend in the city. Nine Wednesdays of wanting the week to be over. Nine Thursdays filled with thoughts of "One more day,", and nine sleepless Friday nights where I was consumed with thoughts of what I'd tell my mom about the week.

Nine Saturdays of my heart breaking when Lawson wouldn't say hi to her, and nine Sundays of my heart breaking all over again when he ran out the door, eager to go home.

But one day. The Wednesday before Christmas. One Wednesday of my mom discovering just how bad I am at dealing with the stress.