Laugh, Cry, Die: A Last Request Fulfilled

Laugh, Cry, Die: A last request fulfilled

The last words I ever heard from my mom were "do nothing, don't call the cops or the ambulance, let me die." Based on true events.

It started with a few journals, the ones you used for doodles in school. They were filled with memories best forgotten, abuse, trauma, and dark thoughts locked away within the mind. Do you ever wonder what your parents thought about, do you still wonder? Stop, its not worth knowing what a person's soul is.

These journals held 20 years of recorded memory, dark thoughts about family, friends, children she taught at school. One was different however it held haunted words, it most likely was haunted, not by a ghost but by herself. Black, blue lined paper, small paragraphs, it held what she thought of others, put simply, her "science experiments" were people, kids, her family.

"True colors of people" was the title on the first page. An intelligent yet bored mind is the most terrifying aspect of humanity to ever grace this planet. Fear ignorance for its stupidity, fear intelligence for its innovation.

This book held the ways she manipulated everyone she knew. Special-Ed students taught how to create sympathy for themselves, family members taught to fear, coworkers to love, and strangers to wonder and laugh with her. Darkness cannot survive without light, she enshrouded herself within it, much like a butterfly in a cocoon.

The soul has been theorized on for millennia, my take, its our darkness that should be locked away. The spirit is the light, the mind is the battleground, which will win in you. My battle still wages, does yours?

After her death I went into a mental health facility, I learned how to cope with what I knew, what I could never tell about. A secret you take to the grave isn't to grave most times but your last days, moments or seconds. I found out all of my moms secrets from 21 journals, one black.

The book however that I found 3 months after her death, was terrifying in all manners and concepts of the word, idea, and feeling.

6 inches tall, 3 inches wide, ½ deep, hard cover, and 256 pages. It recorded her debt, not in monetary value, but with God, the devil, and herself. Every self harm, and small killing, of creatures. She cut her feet on a daily or weekly basis, 6,578 was the number recorded erased and written many times over, the paper was worn like old papyrus or thin leather.

56 small animals, her first was a frog, then hamsters, a rabbit, small dogs, cats, fish, and turtles. She had a tattoo of a green white belly tree frog, her first kill at the age of 7, tattooed at age 18. She always fantasized in her journals about killing her sexually abusive father, she used animals to play it out, smashing, strangling, and stabbing.

Never wonder about your parents thoughts, its not a burden to bear lightly, and never to be taken in jest. These are what make me want to laugh, cry and die. The last request she had of me was to read these journals, and her little black book of horrors. Her last request was fulfilled.

My father was the one to receive the money from her life insurance, my brother and sister received a haunted birthday, for she died three days later by her own hand. I received her darkest thoughts, and a traumatic year of drugs and alcohol, for water in a bathtub is colder than the body that lies within it. My stepmom, who they both had a relationship with, received a house, drugs and plenty of freedom, for that was my moms manipulative plan.

Satiety, my stepmom, is a bulimic blonde psychology major 26 year old, while my dad is an 48 year old automotive worker, with an addiction to cars. A match she made just for his own personal hell, the last laugh was surely hers.

$20,000 was wasted on pot, cars, and cocaine. This is the lesson I have learned , with drugs and alcohol you may run, hide, and shy away from pain, but it will still be there, waiting for you to fall.

2 years and 15 days later, I am one year 7 months and 16 days sober, after a mortar shell firework exited the launch tube not even two feet from my face because I was too drunk and high to think or even care about the ramifications.

A song I wrote in 7th grade best explains my life, if a bit crudely.

Pain goes on and on,

Time and time again

I wake up, in this dark abyss

Spirits way above,

Soul is down below,

Body is on the ground

And I'm all alone

Take me away

Last time I fall

Yet it still burns to talk

Still hurts to cry

It just

Goes.. on

And..

On

The best lesson of life, if you find a black book, don't read it. You may never want read again, or like me always read in hopes of forgetting.