Once upon a time, in a house like yours, the memories of your battered mother were the real thing. You learned to keep your mouth shut and finish your chores because you know who's fault it is when the kitchen's not clean.
How could someone so strong live on her knees? I hated when she cried, so I loved watching him leave. But you could never describe the colors that you've seen, watching your father be dragged away by the police.
Everywhere we went, I left bloody fingerprints, that dragged me back to all the secrets that I kept. The different personalities and roles that I assumed. Altering reality, and resisting the truth.
My mother never left the house, so we reciprocated--suffering alone together. Living for hopes of recovering. We went together often. We saw with the same eyes. The lineage movie screens play screams and lies.
It's hard to rest at night in a house that never sleeps. - See my family role model stay awake for weeks - while my cousins and I create our own comfort zones, and try to re-issue the innocence they left in the foster homes.
It's nobody's fault, and I know that nobody's perfect. But "I'm sorry" repeatedly never really makes it right.
Maybe we could find a better way if we keep searching. And I'm not the type of coward who goes out without a fight.