Thanks for coming to this next update. :) So sorry it took a while––I've been meeting with my old mathematics teacher for ACT help/prep and also been going on college tours and stuff.
And, if you don't know, I'm in the band at my school which takes up a lot of my summer. I will most likely not update from August 6th-11th as I have band camp and I am a co-section leader this year, so I have to be on my A-game for the rest of my section. That means I won't be writing as it's nearly 8-9 hours every day and it exhausts me to the point where I go to bed at literally 7:00 PM. XD
wild horses
They look at one another like strangers would across the bar, across the stage, or across the street.
They look at one another like they don't know who the other is anymore. I see it in Dad's eyes, mixed so deeply with whiskey and beer that the strangeness of looking at the woman he married is almost blinded by the alcohol. I see it in Momma––in the way she moves, the way she talks, the way she looks at Darry and sees her husband in her own son, her own flesh that is just as much of her as it is him.
She's like a machine; oiled and fueled by her love, her passion, her will to stay with him. He's just a bitter excuse for a father; he loves the drinks and the way it makes him feel more than his own wife, more than his own children. It's sickening––feels like poison has entered my body, crawled under my skin, undergone the journey through my veins until it reaches my heart and then I, like my father, will cease to feel any emotion than the rush of that poison, that sickening feeling.
She's so in love with him; and God, it hurts to see it. He makes love to whiskey and shot glasses, and she's in the corner, begging to be noticed like a posh little girl.
It's sad; remorseful; unthinkable, that a woman could love a man with so much of herself and go unnoticed in the eyes of him. But she still tries––still tries to show him that he has a life outside of the drinking; still tries to love him despite the long, dark nights; still tries to throw herself at him in the hopes that he will love her, that he'll notice her, and nothing ever comes out of it.
No reward; no love; nothing but a hiss and a drunken slur, and she's off of him and away in the bedroom, where her cries echo in my dreams.
Darry and I go to bed at night and hope that they both wake up the next morning. That Momma isn't slipping deeper into the cracks of despair, that Dad isn't drinking himself to death. It's enough to make us unable to sleep, the fact that one morning, we might find Dad on the couch and Momma somewhere other than the bed.
It's a wonder she's still with him; a wonder he's still here. I'm the slightest bit thankful for both those things.