Who really cares? - Kate M. (i read books TXT) 📗

Lying on the hardwood floor, turning up the music louder and louder so my mom and my sister don’t hear my sobs. That’s become my nightly routine. It’s my secret life, something that’s all my own. It’s like I’m fooling them though, they know. They just don’t want to, so they pretend to be oblivious. The only member of the family who actually doesn’t know, is Dad. He wouldn’t care though. He left us for a smoother, carefree lifestyle. Who needs him anyway?
Once I can catch my breath, and my heart slows down, I wipe away the tears and walk downstairs to dinner to laugh, and joke with Mom and my sister. We all know though, that we’re not happy. The walls of our house close in on us every day. We suffocate each other, slowly growing more dependent on our entangled lies.
My mom pretends to be moving on, finding herself again, breaking away from just being the Misses, but she still won’t divorce him. She says it’s too expensive to end a marriage now, but we all know what her real reasons are.
She takes a bite of leftover meatloaf, glances at lovely little sister, who incidentally isn’t so little anymore, spends the weekend drinking with “new friends”, and letting go in the music, but hey, at least she’s letting go. But darling sister just drinks her apple juice quietly.
No one wants to look at me. Wouldn’t it be lovely if I were the tragic hero of the story? Staying strong for everyone, only crying when no one is around. Helping them all each day, with inspirational ideas, and motivational saying, daises, sunshine and all that shit? That’s not the story I wrote myself though. In fact, I’m the darkest villain of us all. I don’t feel for them anymore, they’ve stopped listening to me. I don’t know why I cry, half of the time. The other half of the time it’s because someone has disappointed me or let me down. Nothing works out for me, anymore, and thanks to this, I’ve stopped caring. The sobs only make my body hurt now, no longer does my heart feel it. I don’t feel hurt anymore, and consequently, I don’t feel love either, not towards my family or my friends. I don’t even care that it’s gotten to this point. The only thing I feel is trapped. Trapped in this house and trapped in this body that I can feel dying each day, and trapped in my own mind that tortures me endlessly and maliciously.
Just pushing the food around on my plate, I glance at dear old Daddy’s picture. No one’s moved it yet. The dust is collecting on it. It’s just a shot of him and I, sitting on the step late at night. Probably counting the stars. He said it would probably take forever to count them all. I said that was fine since we had forever anyway. He just laughed, giving no answer and making no promise.
He left a little over a year ago now. Looking around the table, his spot is still there. As if he might walk in and take it back at any moment. Clearing my plates off in the sink, I use towels he and my mom received as wedding gifts. Walking up the stairs, I return a book to the shelf he once built. I go to my room to barely making it inside before the sobs start up again, I shut my door, the one that always sticks, despite that he tried to fix it. But I don’t care, right?

Publication Date: 02-22-2010

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