Remy's Story
I trudged downstairs, knowing it was almost dinnertime. I entered the living room, and saw my mother and father sitting on the couch. My father was gently, but firmly holding my mother's arms down, as tremors shook violently through her body. I felt my chest tighten with hatred, as I looked at her and remembered that morning.
She had caught me staring at her during breakfast. She'd yelled at me, telling me what a worthless human being I was. She told me, "Take a good, long look, 'cause this is your future! You'll end up just like me, except no one is gonna care when you die! You'll have no one. You'll die alone, never leaving a mark, because no one cares about you!" Then her arm had given a violent jerk, and she knocked a glass of milk from the table. That's when I'd fled out the door to go to school.
"Remy?" she croaked out. With that one, sad, almost apologetic word, all the hatred drained out of me.
"Y-yes mother?" I asked her, stepping towards the couch. My mother's body had stopped shaking, so my father removed his arms from around her.
"Mother? Why are you calling me mother?" Her voice sounded hysterical. "Who are you?" My mother's hand shot out suddenly, involuntarily, and met my cheek with a loud crack.
I turned, and ran from the room, back up the stairs, tears streaming down my face.
"Remy!" I heard my dad call out to me, but I ignored him.
I ran into my room, and slammed the door, then slid down it, into a sitting position. I pulled my knees up to my chest, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed. My father had tried to explain time, and time again. "It's not her fault." "It's the disease." "She doesn't mean it." Those were the things he told me every time she yelled, or hit me when her body gave a particularly violent tremor. It was all the Huntington's fault; but it didn't matter. I was still loosing my mother… and I still didn't care.
