Chapter 1: The News

Just the Beginning

I'm impulsive. I don't think about what I'm doing, nor do I care. I don't have that long to live so what does it matter. I only have so much time.

 

When I was four, my mother took me to see a doctor, a doctor that could tell her if I would have any complications or diseases that she should know about. He took blood, hair, anything with my DNA on it. He was gone for awhile, but returned as quickly as he could. Coming into the room, he handed my mother the paper work and sat down at his desk. My mother mad a noise and covered her mouth with her hands. Trying to keep her voice low so that I couldn't hear, she asked him, "What does this mean!? Is she going to die?"

He nodded his head slowly and stood back up. "She has a disease that none of us or anyone else can fix. I am very sorry, but your daughter will die around the age of nineteen, give or take." He leaves the room to give us privacy.

My mother sits there quietly as she cries into her hands for what seems like forever as I read a one of the many books that she has gotten me. With a quick sniffle, she stands and composes herself. She gives me her hand and I take it, and we walk out of the building. She drives like a maniac the entire home, going through all the red lights and never stopping for anything or anyone.

As we made it home and drove up into the drive way, I climbed out of the passenger side of the car and ran up the walk way to the door to our apartment. Inside, my dad sat on his a** watching what sounded like a boxing match. "Sarah!" He screeched her name, "Where's the God Damn beer!"

She let out a ragged breath and went to the pantry and pulled out a six pack of beer. She handed one to my dad and then took one for herself. I tried quietly getting to my room without having my dad notice me, but it was too late as he brought his eyes on my like daggers. "You," he says, and starts yelling at me and before I can understand what's going on I'm on the other side of the room. My head hit the wall feeling like it just exploded and a stinging came across my cheek as I landed in a heap on the floor. "Go to your room," he tells me ignoring that I might have had a concussion. I look for my mother for help, but she's already on her second beer and wasted. She was no help that night or any other night she was drunk. "I have no money I want to spend on you. You don't have a dinner and be ready to go to school without lunch," My dad tells me as he sits his a*s back on the sofa and continues to watch the match like nothing happened.

I struggle to stand and drag myself to my small room; and sprawled out on my small bed. I cried myself to sleep that night with an empty stomach and an empty heart like I did every night for the next twelve years.

 

 

 

Now, where was I? Oh Yeah. I'm impulsive. I don't care about what I do, or how my choices affect the people around me. I don't care because my a** of a dad doesn't care. I don't care because my mom, even if she does care, she doesn't when she's drunk, and that happens more and more as I grow. I don't care because I don't have anyone, no one who cares for me, so I care for no one. Besides, I only have three years left to live, maybe not even that long.

So why even try?