Past [chapter1]

In my past life my name was George. I �" George �" was a horrible man that came from a wealthy family. I was always so stubborn. I always got into fights and never liked other kids. I had a bad childhood; I was always abused by my alcoholic father. My father would always beat me, even when I would do something right. My mother was always very patient with her only son. As I grew older my family fell into debt with some “loan sharks.” I traumatically witnessed my Father being cruelly beaten by Russian mobsters on more than one occasion. Even though my father always abused me, I still felt it was my duty to protect and defend this alcoholic and abusive father of mine.

When I’d first heard the news of his death I wasn’t surprised. I had been sitting in my 5^th period class by the window with a heavy feeling in my gut. I knew my father had a meeting a bunch of those sick people. There was no way he would be able to pay them today. His job barely fed us as it was with his drinking and what with the interest and all; the amount my father borrowed had most likely tripled since he’d made the worst choice of his life and got that loan. No matter how desperate he was he still should have known better. I looked up at my teacher when she said my name snapping me out of my personal thoughts. She was trying to tell me something but I was too distracted my bloody hands. I had gotten so worked up thinking of my pathetic father that I’d balled up my fists until my nails pierced through the skin on my palms. I heard one of my classmates gasp at something my teacher had said. I looked up to see the teacher had walked up to me and had a concerned look on her face. I raised an eyebrow. She usually ignored me just as much as I ignored her.

“We are here for you, George,” She said simply as she came closer and took my hand, squeezing it. “Don’t you think for a moment you are alone.”

I saw the rest of the class nod in agreement. I was starting to get pissed and the feeling in my gut worsened.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I spat at her, and snatched my hand from her grip. She looked at me startled.

“About your father…” she whispered, confused.

“What about him?” My eyebrows smashed together. “What has happened to my father?” I stood up quickly knocking into her.

“H-He’s de-dead,” She stuttered confused. “d-didn’t you h-hear what I  w-was saying?”  I shook my head vigorously.

“No, that’s not true” I said firmly, shaking my head faster. I shoved her out of my way and ran out of the classroom. I felt my face flush and when I reached up to touch my cheeks, my pace faltered. I stopped at the corner to catch my breath and slid leaning against the wall. I stared at my wet hand like it was the strangest thing. I sat on the hallway’s dusty floor and watched as my tears mixed with the little bit of dried blood left on my palms. I knew exactly who was responsible for this. I winced as I realized I balled up my fists again. I ignored the pain as I promised my father’s soul revenge.

The next few weeks were torture. I never thought I would ever see my mother suffer the way she did after my father’s death. The love she had for him was so strong that even the even though he abused her only son and spent all their savings on booze loved him enough to let it be overlooked. My parents meant their vows. Till death did they part.

I stopped going to school and started hanging out with the bad kids of the neighborhood. I made a lot of stupid choices and convinced myself they were for the best. I had to support my mother so I learned the drug business ways. One of the guys hooked me up and I started selling but never doing. I had a plan. I started out denying their encouragements of joining their gang. I wanted them to trust and like me. To want and need me to be one of them. I chose which ones I trusted the most and got close to them. Once we were loyal to each other I finally “caved” and joined.

Meanwhile I watched as my mother wasted away. I don’t think she ever got over my father’s death. She tried to be happy for me but after a while she realized it was no use and stopped pretending to care about the holidays. I was desperate to make her happy. I bought her clothes and jewelry. I bought her a new house and car. I even got a maid. I constantly reminded her that I loved her. But it was never enough. I was never enough. It only made me more determined to get that sorry sick b*****d. He didn’t take away just my father’s life that damn day he took away my mother’s too. 

            One sunny morning I woke up to an unusually quiet house. Every day by the time I would awaken and my mother would have made breakfast and turn on the news. She never really heard what they were saying but did it anyway just because it was something my father used to do too. This was the first time since he died that the radio wasn’t on. I quickly jumped out of my bed and walked to her room, my pulse racing. I didn’t hear the sound my knuckles made on the door as I knocked because of the blood rushing through my ears. I waited but when the door didn’t open I turned the knob myself.

            “Mother?” I called. I let out a breath when I realized I hadn’t been breathing. I stared at her sleeping form on the bed. I thought I would be relieved when I saw her sleeping but the feeling of unease engulfed me until I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t wait until she woke on her own. I shook her carefully, afraid to hurt her. She didn’t even twitch in her sleep. She’s just a heavy sleeper, I tried to convince myself. I started to shake her more roughly and shout at her.

            “Mother! Mother wake up!” I yelled. I let her drop on the bed and I clutched my face. “No! This can not be happening!!” I sobbed.

            After the funeral I officially joined the gang. I learned how to fight and defend myself. I became colder and lost my sense of humor. I got my trusted men and told them about my father and how I needed to get revenge, if not for my father than for my mother. I killed my father’s murderer and the other Russians I knew who were involved. But it didn’t give me the satisfactory feeling I had expected to get from finally getting revenge. So I grew an unhealthy hatred toward all Russians and became dangerously racist against them. I became a Russian hit man. I only took the job if I knew the person who was to be assassinated was Russian. It had nothing to do with my parents but I irrationally kept doing it. Even after I left the gang. I was sad and lonely the rest of my life. I could never let a women love me. I saw my mother scarred by love and never wanted to scar anyone the way she was scarred. One crazy day I met my father’s murderer’s son. And out of all my enemies, he was the one to kill me. I was reincarnated as a boy named Riad. And I suffer for the mistakes I made in my past life.

Author's Note

please comment!

Reviews

[Ms_Sassypants]

There is a lot of telling in this piece. There is more potential if you could rewrite it with some descriptions and "showing" instead of just narratives. Show us a scene or an unfolding event - include the five senses- don't just "tell" us. Having said that, I do like the spacing and neatness of the overall work. Let me know when you have polished it - I would love to read it again. Good luck!

[lovely haerts]

Thank you so much for the advice. I promise to try as soon as I can! Thank you for reading!