I'm Sorry, Mother (Original)
I'm Sorry, Mother
Maggie has a few regrets after trying to finish her mother's unpublished works... (Original drabble)
Rating: G
Claimer: Everything here is mine. Please do not share elsewhere or use any of my characters/settings without asking me first. Thanks. :)
I pick up your journal. Yes, the one you said I should never see, mother, but you’re no longer here to tell me to leave it alone. There were only so many secrets you could keep for so long, and part of me wonders why you bothered at all. I wasn’t a complete fool, but these stories, they say more than you could ever express.
Guilt, shame, helplessness.
I suppose I should have taken a hint when you would lock yourself in your room for days on end, only to come out with another draft that you refused to share with us. I used to resent you for it. I never understood your process, even as a fellow writer. I thought you were showing me up with your creativity, that you were too smug to share your faults. I thought that you wanted nothing to do with Gerry and I during the draft process.
I was so wrong.
It was only a matter of time before you wasted away into nothing, like your last days. When you found out that your illness was terminal, it must have been such a relief for you. Treatable, the doctors claimed, but you insisted on turning down every form of chemotherapy they threw your way. You didn’t even take the morphine they prescribed to you. You just let yourself wither away, not unlike a ghost.
It was all an excuse, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the cancer that killed you. It was your pride. It was a lose-lose situation you had on your hands. Either pull the trigger early, or die miserable. I have to give you credit, you didn’t bother with the trigger, the pills, whatever your choice of weapon was. You waited it out, and I guess I can respect you just a bit more for that.
But these stories, this journal, these characters...
They weren’t just another story of yours meant to be published. They were meant for you and only for you. Their problems, their personalities, their setting, everything is not the way I knew you or your writing to be. I thought I could finish this project for you and give it the recognition I thought it deserved, that I would deserve.
I was wrong for once.
I promise, Anthony’s story will remain tucked under the loose floorboard in your old bedroom, where it belongs.
Nobody will ever touch it again, and your secrets will be mine for the rest of my life.
Maggie has a few regrets after trying to finish her mother's unpublished works... (Original drabble)
Rating: G
Claimer: Everything here is mine. Please do not share elsewhere or use any of my characters/settings without asking me first. Thanks. :)
I pick up your journal. Yes, the one you said I should never see, mother, but you’re no longer here to tell me to leave it alone. There were only so many secrets you could keep for so long, and part of me wonders why you bothered at all. I wasn’t a complete fool, but these stories, they say more than you could ever express.
Guilt, shame, helplessness.
I suppose I should have taken a hint when you would lock yourself in your room for days on end, only to come out with another draft that you refused to share with us. I used to resent you for it. I never understood your process, even as a fellow writer. I thought you were showing me up with your creativity, that you were too smug to share your faults. I thought that you wanted nothing to do with Gerry and I during the draft process.
I was so wrong.
It was only a matter of time before you wasted away into nothing, like your last days. When you found out that your illness was terminal, it must have been such a relief for you. Treatable, the doctors claimed, but you insisted on turning down every form of chemotherapy they threw your way. You didn’t even take the morphine they prescribed to you. You just let yourself wither away, not unlike a ghost.
It was all an excuse, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the cancer that killed you. It was your pride. It was a lose-lose situation you had on your hands. Either pull the trigger early, or die miserable. I have to give you credit, you didn’t bother with the trigger, the pills, whatever your choice of weapon was. You waited it out, and I guess I can respect you just a bit more for that.
But these stories, this journal, these characters...
They weren’t just another story of yours meant to be published. They were meant for you and only for you. Their problems, their personalities, their setting, everything is not the way I knew you or your writing to be. I thought I could finish this project for you and give it the recognition I thought it deserved, that I would deserve.
I was wrong for once.
I promise, Anthony’s story will remain tucked under the loose floorboard in your old bedroom, where it belongs.
Nobody will ever touch it again, and your secrets will be mine for the rest of my life.