Fangs of hell


Death is depressing as it is. If you’re surrounded by it, it’s even more depressing. My mom’s right in the middle of it. I’ve never felt a stronger urge to kill someone, anyone. Yes, you’ve guessed right. I’m at my parents. Just for a weekend. One weekend is enough to become a murderer. 

 I feel sorry for my dad who’s turned into a weak little creature waiting to die. And my mother who takes care of him even though he despises her for it because she’s the last person he wants to be dependent on. I’m thinking abomination and purgatory, fire and brimstone, witches burning on a pyre. I feel sorry for her, too, but it’s hard to show empathy when she’s such a pain in the arse

How did I survive this unbearable weekend? I’m not sure. If anything, it makes me crave my death. I’d rather die than live another day trapped in the fangs of hell. All I want is a bit of peace. Is that too much to ask for? To die in peace?

From the most suffocating place on earth

V. M.

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