Dear Mum,
I hate you. I hate how I feel like you've abandoned me, how I feel like your constant disappointment, how I feel like you are happier now that we rarely speak. I hate how you’ve disparaged me for years, how you used to speak about my dad, how you've raised me to feel this way. I hate that my dreams were ridiculous to you. Because of your action, because of your words, I'm filled with all this burning anger, all of this bottomless sorrow, all my self resentment; you let it happen. I hate how you dismissed my feelings, how you made me feel like I couldn't do anything right, how you made me feel like I was always wrong. Why don't you try to talk anymore? Why didn't you take me out for the birthday meal you promised? Why am I your last thought? Why don't you I've me like my brother? When did you stop loving me? When will I be good enough? When will you love me again? Will you ever again? What do I have to do? What do I have to say? What will make you happy? Does this make you happy? The distance between us is far, yet I feel that it is tenfold. I was scared of you, I was resentful of you, I spiralled and you weren't there. Did you ever forgive me for being a brat? Did you ever forgive me for the things I said? Will you ever forgive me for the mistakes I've made? I'm asking the question and I'm terrified of your answer. I'm terrified that you can't forgive me. I'm terrified that I’d understand if you didn't. I hate that I feel these things. I hate that these are the thoughts I have about you. I hate that I'm reason we don't talk.
I hate you, mum. I hate you because you remind me of the times that you did try and I pushed you away. I hate you because you remind me of what I've put you through. I hate that it isn't you that I hate, I hate that I hate myself. So I deflect, I play the victim; I make you the monster in my story, when I know it is untrue. You tried your best, I tried my best to negate it.
I hate that we don't talk. I hate that I'm not your little boy anymore. I hate that I left you behind. But maybe it can be different, maybe I can be different. Maybe I can be your little boy again, maybe you can be my mum again. Maybe I don't have to be angry anymore, maybe I don't have to be sorrowful anymore, maybe I can release myself from my resentment. Maybe.
This isn't my confession to you, this is my apology. This is what I haven't told you, what I've hidden every time whenever we've spoken. I've let these thought eat at my mind for long enough. My confession is that I miss you; I miss the woman who raised me herself, holding down a job and giving me a start to life that some aren't lucky enough to have. I miss the woman who tried to help me, tried to push me the right way, despite my constant pushing back. I miss you.
Hopefully this letter reaches you well, hopefully you read it and hopefully you can forgive me for my feelings. I don't want them anymore, I don't want to feel hatred anymore, I want to feel loved again.
Your little boy, always.
Love, Dillon
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Who Am I?
My eyes flutter, slowly opening with a struggle. After a fight with my eyelids, I let my eyes take in my surroundings. I was in a rather peculiar setting, a bell-shaped room. The room was walled with windows of stained glass. As the light shone through coloured glass, the room was softly bathed in a wild spectrum of colour. Though the room was exquisitely grand, it lacked many furnishings or ostentatious decor and was almost empty except for a long table that was adorned by crystal vases filled with tall bouquets, tall clusters of blooming, vivid colours, made all the more dramatic by the rainbow rays cast through the windowed walls. The table was long enough to sit an entire family tree, yet the only setting put out was in front of me. As I sat at the head of the table, I found that, despite not knowing where I was or how I got here, I wasn’t afraid. Confused, sure, but I wasn’t scared and, instead, felt safe, unreachable and isolated. As my eyes ran over the room, I noticed a small shadow at the other end of the table that seemed untouched by the gentle light, or any light at all. It seemed like I was staring into a small void, a space in this romanticised reality to be filled. The distance between us seemed impossibly long, the table stretching further than I assumed the room reached. The darkness was writhing, slithering and wrapping around itself, its shape inconsistent and constantly changing. It did this for some time, seeming to become more tangible the more I looked at it. Again, I felt no fear, I felt only confusion and intrigue; but there was more than that. As I looked at the shifting darkness, I felt a wash of familiarity come over me and, as I felt that familiarity, the shape began changing. It seemed to shift itself into a final form that resembled a humanoid being; yet it still seemed to move, its limbs and torso stretching and shrinking. Male or female, tall or short, fat or thin, I couldn’t tell; or rather, the shadow couldn’t decide. I focused on the feeling of familiarity I felt, if I could find where that feeling came from, maybe then I would understand what it was doing. I tried to focus on the thing and see if it gave any clue to what I was looking at. As I stared intently at it, it did the same. Its ‘face’ was looking at me, studying me and as I was studying it.
By Dillon Johnstone4 years ago in Fiction
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