I see her still, sleeping in her bed soundly.
I remember nights when she would crawl into bed with me,
breath stinking of Bacardi,
and tell me things to soothe my pain.
Looking back, it was never my pain, it was her own.
She would sing to me and hug me,
even hold me and tell me she loved me.
Even at such a young age, I knew her lies.

The screams, the breaking, the blood...
every night it would come and go and I would block it out with a child's imagination.
Eventually, all her attention turned to me...
the screams, the breaking, the blood.
Never good enough, never what she wanted, never who she wanted.
Words that broke my heart, words that kept me away from her love, words that to this day haunt my every move.

Today, I strive to make her proud, make her happy, make her realize that she is glad that I'm here.
Nights like this, I believe that I will never accomplish any of those things.

Is this really a mother's love?
If so, I want no part of it.
Some say "Atleast you learn from her mistakes".
I would much rather have had a mother than an example.
I would much rather have had her love than her hate.

So much older, and yet her childish words still crush me.
What will happen when she needs me most?
Am i obligated to help her? Soothe her pain, take care of her, make sure she sleeps soundly at night?
How can I be sure I can do these things when the one person I needed to do those things for me, was constantly shitfaced and threatening my life?

Obligated?
As her miserable life deteriorates, along with my love for her, only time will tell if I will become the caretaker for the woman that should have been my mother.