Post by Madeline Speare on Jan 30, 2008 1:54:46 GMT
My hands were wrapped tightly around a cup of coffee. A broken bottle of firewhiskey was on the kitchen floor; it was empty. My hands had stopped shaking but I kept them firmly around the cup, I wasn't taking any chances.
Both Alex and Erin were tucked in their beds upstairs for their naps. It was getting easier to get them to sleep, even if Alex occasionally woke up crying loudly. Singing a song to him would usually get him back to sleep.
The bags under my eyes were from the lack of sleep. It felt like days since I had slept but that wasn't true. After the whole tower and getting Alex back fiasco I'd been sleeping a lot better, partly because I had Ian net to me again.
It was all in my sub-conscious though, that was were my problem lay hidden.
I could hear it, them. Every time I closed my eyes their voices floated back into my head. The next memory was worse then the last. Each one left their mark, brought a stinging blow.
It took every once of my self control not to pick up a firewhiskey to try and drown their voices out with alcohol.
My family. Their voices were the ones in my head.
The sarcastic comments, stinging remarks, words of reassurance, encouraging little speeches, it was all them. Their voices were a constant reminder that I failed them.
My mind wanders absently, as if by it's on accord, to a couple years back. The house was filled with voices, warmth, laughter, love.
Back when everyone was alive and healthy and no one hated each other. Back when everything was still okay.
"Mum! Charlie did it again!"
"Did not Aunt Abby!"
Our voices are overshadowed by the older children, and I can feel myself being lifted off the ground and onto someone's shoulders. It takes me a brief moment to realize it's Davey. Walking down the hall to where everyone else is I'm greeted by smiling faces.
They're suddenly pulled away and we're in a bar.
The older kids are all huddled in a corner, the younger ones struggling to see. Firewhiskey in every hand, they're an uproar of laughter.
"That is not funny!"
"No, but I'll keep drinking till it is!"[/size]
My head is pounding, and I press my palm to my forehead, tears are stinging in my eyes and I swallow, my throat feeling incredibly dry.
"I'll keep drinking till it is," I whisper softly.
Both Alex and Erin were tucked in their beds upstairs for their naps. It was getting easier to get them to sleep, even if Alex occasionally woke up crying loudly. Singing a song to him would usually get him back to sleep.
The bags under my eyes were from the lack of sleep. It felt like days since I had slept but that wasn't true. After the whole tower and getting Alex back fiasco I'd been sleeping a lot better, partly because I had Ian net to me again.
It was all in my sub-conscious though, that was were my problem lay hidden.
I could hear it, them. Every time I closed my eyes their voices floated back into my head. The next memory was worse then the last. Each one left their mark, brought a stinging blow.
It took every once of my self control not to pick up a firewhiskey to try and drown their voices out with alcohol.
My family. Their voices were the ones in my head.
The sarcastic comments, stinging remarks, words of reassurance, encouraging little speeches, it was all them. Their voices were a constant reminder that I failed them.
My mind wanders absently, as if by it's on accord, to a couple years back. The house was filled with voices, warmth, laughter, love.
Back when everyone was alive and healthy and no one hated each other. Back when everything was still okay.
"Mum! Charlie did it again!"
"Did not Aunt Abby!"
Our voices are overshadowed by the older children, and I can feel myself being lifted off the ground and onto someone's shoulders. It takes me a brief moment to realize it's Davey. Walking down the hall to where everyone else is I'm greeted by smiling faces.
They're suddenly pulled away and we're in a bar.
The older kids are all huddled in a corner, the younger ones struggling to see. Firewhiskey in every hand, they're an uproar of laughter.
"That is not funny!"
"No, but I'll keep drinking till it is!"[/size]
My head is pounding, and I press my palm to my forehead, tears are stinging in my eyes and I swallow, my throat feeling incredibly dry.
"I'll keep drinking till it is," I whisper softly.
