#021.

tantalus edits:  ↳ a look into dr. langford’s footnotes in subject 004′s file

My father died when I was 18 years old. My mother fell into a depression and stopped trying to make money. After losing her job, the pickings were becoming slim and I could tell that her heart was no longer in it anymore… this thing called life. She lost the love of her life and dwelled on the fact that she would never find another like him. I felt bad because I was happy that he died. Eighteen years of emotional abuse so the day his eyes fluttered was the day I was set free. Instead of being the sweet girl that everyone thought me to be, I became a rebel. My first vice was drinking. I did it every morning thinking that it was helping me get my start to the day. Deep down, I knew it was just making things worse. I suppose I began to forget the pain of watching my mother practically kill herself day by day. My little sister was going to school and I had to walk her there every day but not before partaking in my vice. The second was marijuana. I tried it at a few parties but nothing too shocking happened. It made me sleepy and it wasn’t hard enough. So I took it a step further and was introduced to number three: pills. Vicodin, to be more specific. Alcohol and vicodin paired together made me forget all of my troubles. Although it was hard to come by, I still enjoyed it when I could. At a party, I had my first overdose. My heart slowed down and the word grew a bit darker… needless to say, the moment made me smile. Death was sweet, death was exciting. Or at least being on the edge of it was. I was brought back to reality and the vivid colors of my world but for the rest of my adolescence into adulthood, I would be craving that feeling again. My mother decided that death was easier than life and she took her own when I turned 22. The courts deemed me unfit to care for my sister but I knew I was well enough. To have Noelle stripped from my arms was the worst thing to have ever happened to me. And yet, I couldn’t seem to shake the addiction that growing in me. I didn’t feel as if I was addicted to prescription pills or alcohol but my aunt felt differently. She stopped my sister from seeing me for six months. That was enough time for my world to spiral. On December 24th, I overdosed again… my aunt Elena found me in the middle of the living room floor with foam and vomit falling from my lips, I was choking on it apparently. I was sent to the ER and funny enough, I died for sixteen minutes. My lucky number. Floating in the abyss, I stumbled upon my mother and she looked so viciously angry with me. “You fucking idiot! How could you fall so far?” My mother’s words were dripping with regret. It was almost as if she was too angry to look me in the eye. I couldn’t even hold back to sudden sob that filled this endless space. It echoed and continued on and on. “Maman, please—I’m—I’m fine! I can get Noelle back. I… I know I can.” False promises and false hope. We both knew that I couldn’t come back from where I was. Fallen so far from grace, I was a mess. My skin had grown pale and I stopped eating as much… I was smaller—I was dying. “YOU LOST HER! YOU’RE AN ADDICT!” My chest was heaving while my mother scolded me in Limbo. Or whatever this place was. It was cold. Too cold… “I’m not a fucking addict! I can—I’m… fine…” I fucking hated myself. “You get back there and you get your sister back. Get your life together.” Before I could plead with my mom for forgiveness, she slapped me and my eyes opened. My body jolted and white lights were blinding me. Machines were attached to me now and the doctors were screaming in my native tongue. “Mom?” I called out and the sudden feeling of being gutted came over. She should have been here instead of me. I didn’t deserve the life that was given to me. Not while I was overcome with addiction. My aunt admitted me into the nearest rehab center; I wanted to thank her. But I would never get to do so. She died in a car accident after dropping me off. As my uncle says, I ruined our family. I agree with him. Addiction has me by the throat and I know I’ll never escape it.

One thing I absolutely love to do is write people handwritten letters. We live in a society where everything has become extremely impersonal, and I hate it. I often wish I was born in a different era because I wish my relationships were more personal. But we are obsessed with our phones and ourselves. To combat this, sometimes I write people letters. I've written letters to my sisters before, and I live with them. I just feel that when I write something in a letter in my handwriting, that person will remember me and the sentiment remains even as time passes. Sometimes I'll spritz a bit of my perfume so people remember me by my scent. I am moving to Orlando at the end of the summer and I think this gives me an even better opportunity for letter-writing because I'll actually get to mail it out.

wes: so, i was on your computer today

nae sarang.

Norway. Well… that checked off one thing. “But… what about downstairs? And why the Hel is there that… unicorn and crow crest everywhere?”