*~*Free.Spirit*~*
New member
Is this too honest to for a religion story on your darkest moment...it has to be true
The moon slowly rises in the sky as I at the window seat of my bedroom watching the still night sky. My room faces a farmers field currently covered in a blanket of soft snow, there's a peacefulness outside with the moonlight shining down reflecting off the freshly fallen snow, but it's a peacefulness I can't fully appreciate. Behind the closed door I hear the steady rhythm of an machine gently pumping away, keeping my fathers lungs moving while he's asleep. Almost like the background singer at a concert the heart machine slowly keeps the beat counting time...but whose time, certainly not the rhythm for a concert, for this symphony of machines are no melody, they slowly pump away and monitor my fathers failing body. Welcome to the home of someone dying in hospice. As the moon rises slowly I reach underneath the window seat and grab out a bottle, inside holds the key to survival, or so I think, a Mickey of vodka haphazardly hidden beneath my seat, not that I fear someone finding it, nobodies came in my room in months too concerned with the failing health of my dad. I grab my iPod and turn on home by Patrick Watson, as his haunted voice fills my head replacing my worries I fulfill my nightly ritual and take a sip savoring the burning feeling as the hot liquid slowly makes its way to my stomach. I drink until I am as numb as my dads morphine enduced slumber as fix you by coldplay reaches the chorus. Sadly I look out onto the yard, 5 acres of sprawling grass carefully manicured by a gardner, trees and fountains and ponds expertly placed to provide a majestic awe inspiring yard, up until a year ago as I recall my life was perfect, a whirlwind of friends, boys, and money. In my drunken stupor I recall the sleepover I had in our guest house only a year ago, I had planned fr hours carefully picking out nail polish, games, and movies, excited for our first all nighter. Funny how long ago 15 felt, but between the doctors visits and surgeries and treatments maybe it really had been forever ago, a thousand lifetimes had made me cold and hard in just one year. My dad was my world the man who I called me princess and always watched over me, the one who flew me to Disney world for my tenth birthday and taught me to play play soccer. Looking out at my friends I knew who had a good dad, the girls like me we never worried about boys and love we had all we needed at home, I was told every da I was beautiful and smart and special, and now I was left to watch him waste away. Sometimes when I come home from school i swearing can smell death lingering, waiting and watching to take my world away. It may not be here to kill me but it will certainly take my life away. Stage 4 cancer and not a thing I can do to help, I would give away my high rolling lifestyle for second more with him. But that's selfish, he's in pain, and death is no enemy of his, but rather a savior who can do what I can't, take away his pain.
A year ago that was my darkest hour although i have since sought counselling the memory of my fathers passing forever haunts me
The moon slowly rises in the sky as I at the window seat of my bedroom watching the still night sky. My room faces a farmers field currently covered in a blanket of soft snow, there's a peacefulness outside with the moonlight shining down reflecting off the freshly fallen snow, but it's a peacefulness I can't fully appreciate. Behind the closed door I hear the steady rhythm of an machine gently pumping away, keeping my fathers lungs moving while he's asleep. Almost like the background singer at a concert the heart machine slowly keeps the beat counting time...but whose time, certainly not the rhythm for a concert, for this symphony of machines are no melody, they slowly pump away and monitor my fathers failing body. Welcome to the home of someone dying in hospice. As the moon rises slowly I reach underneath the window seat and grab out a bottle, inside holds the key to survival, or so I think, a Mickey of vodka haphazardly hidden beneath my seat, not that I fear someone finding it, nobodies came in my room in months too concerned with the failing health of my dad. I grab my iPod and turn on home by Patrick Watson, as his haunted voice fills my head replacing my worries I fulfill my nightly ritual and take a sip savoring the burning feeling as the hot liquid slowly makes its way to my stomach. I drink until I am as numb as my dads morphine enduced slumber as fix you by coldplay reaches the chorus. Sadly I look out onto the yard, 5 acres of sprawling grass carefully manicured by a gardner, trees and fountains and ponds expertly placed to provide a majestic awe inspiring yard, up until a year ago as I recall my life was perfect, a whirlwind of friends, boys, and money. In my drunken stupor I recall the sleepover I had in our guest house only a year ago, I had planned fr hours carefully picking out nail polish, games, and movies, excited for our first all nighter. Funny how long ago 15 felt, but between the doctors visits and surgeries and treatments maybe it really had been forever ago, a thousand lifetimes had made me cold and hard in just one year. My dad was my world the man who I called me princess and always watched over me, the one who flew me to Disney world for my tenth birthday and taught me to play play soccer. Looking out at my friends I knew who had a good dad, the girls like me we never worried about boys and love we had all we needed at home, I was told every da I was beautiful and smart and special, and now I was left to watch him waste away. Sometimes when I come home from school i swearing can smell death lingering, waiting and watching to take my world away. It may not be here to kill me but it will certainly take my life away. Stage 4 cancer and not a thing I can do to help, I would give away my high rolling lifestyle for second more with him. But that's selfish, he's in pain, and death is no enemy of his, but rather a savior who can do what I can't, take away his pain.
A year ago that was my darkest hour although i have since sought counselling the memory of my fathers passing forever haunts me