{And Another Day.} You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die
Without You.
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This diary entry is written by Maria_Maelstrom. ( View all entries )
 
Previous entry: {Intro} You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die Without You. in category New Story.
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{And Another Day.} You Couldn't Live Without Me, I Couldn't Die
Without You.
Category: New Story.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
01:03:09 PM (GMT)
[So here's part two. o.o]

And Another Day. “Good for nothing kid, making me have to get up just to wake her. It’s not like I’m the one going to school. She should get an alarm clock.” I could hear him grumbling to himself down the hall, headed towards my room. I was already dressed, and it was six in the morning. If he really had such a problem waking me, I don’t see why he couldn’t just stop doing so. As if he wasn’t looking for any more of an excuse to yell. Sighing, I tugged my hooded sweatshirt down a bit, examining my uniform in the mirror. Not that my reflection would change. It was still a white blouse, the same black-brown plaid skirt, and the sweatshirt with the school’s crest embedded into the chest. I pulled my hair up into a ponytail, and turned to my desk, smiling as I saw another Post-It note. “I know you’ll ace the test. You studied hard.” Two sentences, and it made my day. If this ‘poltergeist’ could see me, he’d probably emanate that warm chuckle again. I’d stayed up all night, saving my room from the mess of Post-It notes he’d stuck onto everything in sight. Math problems. I’d count how many, but looking at the pile two inches thick neatly stacked on my desk, the number would only scare me. “How long do you think you’re going to take!? You’re not learning anything by standing there!” And that’s Robert. Also known as Dad. How I love seeing him in the morning. “You’d better march yourself out of this house this second! I don’t want to have to see your face any more than I have to!” I grabbed my book bag, heading for the door as he turned to leave as well. I knew I wasn’t late. I didn’t really have to leave for another thirty minutes, at least. But I guess I don’t blame him for hating me. I did look a Hell of a lot like my mother. I guess I just remind him of pain. That might be the reason for all of the verbal abuse. I like to think he doesn’t mean it—that it’s just him trying to come up with a comeback for mother’s absence. I don’t know why she left, or where she is, but I wonder if things would really be better off if I’d gone with her. Dad might have drunken himself into a rut, or off-ed himself by now. Maybe it’s better that he’s alive, even if he is just angry at the world. I grabbed my keys from the end table, closing the door behind me as I headed for the bus. He may think I’m useless, but I’m good for something, right? The more time he spends yelling at me, the less time he spends getting drunk. Right?


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