rage shitter

e-l-e-i-s-o-n:

I stand in the doorway, a glass dangling between my fingertips, blood red wine sloshing onto the hardwood floor as I sway from drunkenness. My children have been growing so fast, have been learning so fast… I throw back what little liquid remains in my glass, relishing the sharp burn of alcohol. Their speed is commendable, for eight-year-olds, but it’s still not enough. At this rate, they’re never going to make it out of the library.

Little Veronica looks up at me, her eyes puffy and dark from lack of sleep and eye strain. I keep telling her not to read in the dark, but she just won’t listen. “Mommy,” she whispers. “Mommy, please, we haven’t been outside in months—”

I throw my wine glass to the floor. It shatters, and I watch my children flinch as though from miles away; as though they’re not my children, but someone else’s, someone on a screen, or in a book. Emotions nestled between cream-colored spaces, stark black and meaningless at the end of the day. It’s all just words. It’s all just a story.

“Keep reading,” I bite out, and I barely notice as Eric begins to cry. It’s good for him anyway. Keeping his eyes moist will make it easier for them to read their way out of the labyrinth of books I’ve constructed, and then, when they’re done… They’ll thank me.

Someday, my children will thank me for surrounding them with books.

I’m sure of it.

(via kreedkafer)