Post by larachekov on Dec 17, 2010 22:45:33 GMT -5
lara svana chekov
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[/CENTER]SEVENTEEN. JUNIOR. RUSSIA. DORIANA AGACINSKA. ADMIN EDIT.
I can’t breathe but I still fight.
“Nicoli,
Some could say I come from a broken home. I wouldn’t really know though, because I don’t know anything other than my own family; but I guess I could say we had our own set of issues. Growing up you and mom fought a lot. You would drink, and drink, and drink until you was gone, so far so that you never really knew what you was doing. At least, that’s what mom used to tell me when I was a kid – and I believed her too. When you’re young, no matter what happens to you, you have that innocence, even if it’s only for a year or two: it’s still there. Well even after I stopped completely believing everything my mom said, I wanted to believe so badly that I would try and force myself to. At some point I opened my eyes and realized that she hadn’t told me the truth. You knew what you were doing when you were drunk, you just didn’t care. When you hit my mother, or even me, you wanted us to hurt. Even after you would sober up for those few hours during the day, I couldn’t see you as a kind person. Most would call you a considerate, kind, and helping man, but they didn’t know that monster that lurked inside of you.
“My mom tried her best to deal with you. You’d fight and scream for hours, mom put up with you in the hopes that she’d tire you out before you’d become violent. It was like a song that I’d heard too many times. One that you might have liked when you first heard it, but after the two millionth time it gets played, you just want to punch somebody. It’s how I felt, having to listen to the same thing constantly. As a kid I’d put up with it; while you would shout I would lay in my bed with the covers pulled up above my ears and pretend it was all some fairy tale and one day my real parents would come rescue me from the nightmare, or maybe, one day, I would just wake up. I never did wake up though. That nightmare just continued on.
“As I grew up, people noticed something was off with my life. When a parent teacher conference would come up at school and you and mom wouldn’t show up, I’d always have some pathetic excuse, ‘My mother has the flu and my father has to work.’ They bought it the first few times, eventually they just stopped caring. It was when I came to school with bruises that they noticed. I never found out if they cared or not, but it didn’t matter; they wouldn’t have done anything anyways – no one ever did. Mother tried, but she was just a weakened woman. There was only so much she could really do. I never blamed her for anything. She was always kind and loving, the sweetest person I ever knew. When I would come home crying about a scraped knee or being teased by some bully, she’d rub my back, make me cookies, and tell me a story that would easily calm me down. Though I never told her, in the stories I always imagined her as the heroine and you as the villain. If it were a fairy tale, then she was the princess and the knight and shining armor would be the father I wished I had. Once I asked her why she married you and she told me that you had once been in love, back when you were in high school. She told me that you had been the kindest man in existence. When she’d reject every one of your offers to go on a date with you, you would only try harder for her attention. After going on a single date, my mother fell in love with you. You two had been together for ten years before getting married and having me. Though she never once said it, I always felt as if I were the reason you fell apart. Shortly after my birth, you started drinking and became the man that I know.
“The older I became, the less I was present at home. I made friends at school and tried to be with them as much as possible. Whenever I had the opportunity, I’d be at one of their houses. Their parents always asked why their kids couldn’t come over to my house or why I didn’t stay home more often. I never replied to the questions, finding it easier for them to think of me as selfish than pity me. Though you always cared when I wasn’t at home and would routinely ground me or confine me to my room, I left the house frequently. By age thirteen I was sneaking out of my bedroom on a nightly basis to sleep somewhere where I felt safe. With the ever present fear of being beaten, the feeling of comfort at home was something I never experienced. Even when I didn’t have a friend’s house to go to, I didn’t stay home. Some nights I would wander the streets, taking comfort in the shadowy roads and empty parks. It was beautiful really and it made me see the night in a different light. It wasn’t something to fear, rather, it was something to embrace. Though I’d been an artsy person my whole childhood, I really embraced it when I started to go out at night. Sometimes I’d bring out charcoal and paper to the park and I’d sketch my surroundings. Other times I’d bring my camera – something mom had spent every bit of her saved money to buy me – and document my adventures in the night. It all thrilled me. Anything that I couldn’t tell someone, I would paint, draw, or photograph. It was my release and I embraced it with every part of me. Along with the bruises, traces of art could always be found on me. Some days I had paint in my hair or on my face, other days ink blots would cover my hands.
“It wasn’t really a surprise to anyone, not even you, when I started to hang out with the high school kids. I always acted more mature than kids my own age and had felt more comfortable with people in the same maturity level. I went to parties with my older friends and spent much of my time with them. With them, there was always something going on at night so I always had some place to go when home was too much for me. They were great people, kind, funny, and some were artistic like me. While I went through middle school, I spent much of my time with them. As high school approached, I was beyond ready to enter the world that I’d been living in for the past few years. When Kostine Academy approached me, I was eager to attend. You resisted but eventually, somehow, the school persuaded you to allow me to go. My first year at Kostine was wonderful. Not only is it an artist’s wonderland, but it’s an escape from you. The year following was equally as enjoyable.
“I don’t pity myself for my past or my home, at all. When people ask about my family I tend not to answer. I don’t like the pity that people give. I’ve never accepted handouts or pity before in my life and I’m not going to start now. Though growing up wasn’t the most pleasant thing for me, it definitely hardened me and prepared me for the real world. I learned that people change, that alcohol is a disease, and that life can be a bitch – excuse my language but it fits. I’ve learned to move on, too and I’m working on forgiveness. It’s hard, but some day I hope to forgive you for being the terrible person you are. I’m not saying I’ll shed a single tear – or even feel a bit of despair – if you die, but I do wish to be able to forgive you for harming me and my mother, for her sake. I know that at one point she loved you and even though I can’t see why, I’ll respect her for that.
Lara.”
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jenn. 16. pacific. Five or so years. Pm or thatonejennachick@gmail.com.
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