An extract from a book I’ll never write- 5


So was the last word my mother ever spoke before she never woke again, laying upon that hospital bed with her transparent skin and frail body. The doctors never diagnosed what caused my mother’s death, it was a mystery supposedly. I just remember her getting more sick with each passing day, her rising inability to participate in usual activities and the isolation that became all too common, which made me frightened due to her personality being that of an eccentric nature. I still haven’t forgiven myself for not being able to do something, anything, which might’ve eased her pain. It’s been a few years now since the day in which my world caved in on itself, and when people speak of the pain easing with time, I tend to decline.

Time causes one to reflect intently over past issues and make them worse by giving them much attention. I did that. I just don’t forgive myself, and in all honesty, I blame myself. She was sick and I let her down when she needed me most. Only villains do that. Am I villain or just a disillusioned hero who suffers from a guilty mind? I wish to know. Well not that it matters anymore. It’s happened and I have to move on with my life. After this next bottle I promise I’ll do just that. Now where did I place that drink?

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