The funnel story

A ghosts lonely wanderings reflecting on her time spent, and what it was spent on.

Trigger warnings for rape and drug abuse.

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3. The house

 

I headed up to the door, I knew it would be open and I knew she was inside. I knew this because the man in white who brought me down here told me it would be and that this would be my last chance before he takes me away. I was not frightened because something about him made me feel safe and calm.

I opened the door slowly and walked in, I felt like I had to be quiet even though I knew nobody was in except her. The room was immaculately clean, but not the nice sort of clean. It was the kind of clean you felt it hard to relax in. I hated it, I always had. I told myself thats why my room was always such a mess.

This is a house but it was never a home. Those people had been my parents but they were never my mother and father. For one my mother had left when I was young enough to forget for something I don't care enough to remember. So it had just been me and my father and he made it abundantly clear I just got in the way of things with his new wife.

Speaking of her, she was the kind of woman who had a knack for making you feel like you were never good enough. She could make you feel like you were just about there, touching it. That if you leaned foreward a bit you could fall into it. Then she could would pull the rug away from your feet as if just to remind you how far away from it you actually are. Whatever 'it' was.

Growing up I'd never really made friends, its not as if I was ever allowed to bring them home anyways. But they all had dreams and plans and wanted to go somewhere and be somebody and I never wanted that. I couldn't understand it myself so how were they supposed to understand it? I could never imagine myself going anywhere, its amazing how early a person can give up on themselves sometimes.

I mean its not as if I hadn't tried, not to go somewhere but to just claw my way out of this pit I was in. I remember once again sitting on this very couch (funny how couches are a recurring theme in my life, I should have kept away from them.) I was sat with my stepmother and I told her I didn't feel right, I felt wrong in my brain sort of. Maybe I was sick and I should go to the doctors but she just laughed and said "oh you're many things. Selfish, rude, ungrateful. Thats not an illness thats just you." She said it as if it was a joke for the two of us. I didn't laugh, and I never brought it up again.

I headed up the stairs and as I did I was taken back to that day with the drug dealer. The first place I went afterwards was up these stairs because I didn't want to think about it, I just wanted to take this and make it all go away. I peaked into the bathroom because thats where I had went next, its where I spent most of my time as most junkies do because you get left alone in the bathroom. It was squeaky clean as always and I wondered to myself how they managed to get all the blood off. I bet that pissed my parents off more then what I'd done to myself. 

It was almost as if it had never happened. As if I hadn't ran up here and cooked up some shit like the junkie I was and shot up. This was easy, this was way too fucking easy. It could end easily, it could end so fucking easily. I wasn't going anywhere, I didn't have to and I never had to do this shit again.

 

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