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Written by Morgen
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Saturday, 22 December 2007 |
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My mother always believed saying sorry to be a sign of weakness – especially to apologize to a child. Once someone made it into her bad books they were there indefinitely, and so my name lay scorched in black into her book of sinners. We’d never had a very strong relationship but I remember the day it all turned for the worst…
He was my first love. The first man I’d made love to. I could still see his olive-green eyes, the hat he never took off, and his brilliant open smile perfectly engraved into my mind. He represented everything I wanted and gave me a way of escaping my current reality. We started out as friends; he’d smile at me from across the room, and make excuses to talk to me by pretending not to know how to do his work. I’d always feel a nervous excitement before arriving at the class we shared and eventually it grew to hour-long conversation on the phone and dates out to dinner before a movie. It was so innocent and beautiful. I never wanted the bliss to end.
Our first time was amazing. I’d never loved someone so much before. I didn’t know how my mom found out, but she did, and she was not pleased. It was the first and last sex talk I’d ever receive from my mother. She brought me into her bedroom, shut the door, and glared at me for what felt like hours (though it was only a few minutes). Then she spoke. The words came out like shards of glass splintered into the bottom of my foot. “You had…sex…didn’t you?” she asked calmly. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never been so speechless in my life. “Yes,” I hesitated, “I love him. I thought you’d know what it felt like.” She continued to stare at me with her fiery black eyes. “Men are pigs. All they want is sex. Now you just gave it away, dirty ****,” she snarled. Her words were so cold and emotionless that tears began to well up in my eyes. I wasn’t surprised at her sharp comment, since I’d gotten them all my life, but it still cut me deeply. I was insulted by her stupidity. She’d had numerous boyfriends through my childhood who always seemed to be on something whether it was drugs or booze. She’d claim she “just hated boring men.” I’d always wondered why they had to be on drugs to be interesting to her. A question I’d ponder surely until the last of my days. My hurt fused into a volcano of anger, “Oh and you would know, wouldn’t you? Great example you were.” “Shut up! I’m an adult. It’s different when you are old enough,” she growled. “I know I’m not that old, but at least I know how to respect myself.” I walked out of her bedroom and snatched the cordless phone from the holder and dialed my love’s number. At least I had someone who would understand. It had been years since that incident. He and I were no longer together, however I still considered him one of my best friends. I tried to apologize to my mother for the fight, but she wouldn’t have any of it. She’d never treated me the same after that moment and she couldn’t seem to hide her resentment towards me. Every conversation between us almost always seemed to go right back to my mistakes and she loved to shove it in my face that he and I were no longer dating with little comments like, “I knew you weren’t in love.” Or, “So how do you like yourself now?” Her scornful behaviour confused me but I assumed she might have been jealous of my ability to receive respect from a man I’d had a relationship with. A feat she’d never accomplished. I purposely tried to be nothing like her, but I’d come to resent her, just as she resented me. I thought to myself why should I pardon her behaviour when she won’t pardon mine? After my rejected apology I realized she was never going to give me an explanation for her behaviour or ask my forgiveness. My name could never fade, only be deeper engraved, in her book of sinners.
Copyright 2007 Morgen
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Last Updated ( Saturday, 22 December 2007 )
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