We will help you get your mom off drugs!

I think I killed for the first time when I was thirteen years old. It wasn’t a big deal. None of my murders were. It’s not as if any of them were particularly malicious or anything. I mean, I did have my reasons. Of course I did. Everybody has their reasons. Mostly, though, I did it just to fill the time. It’s really not that much of a big deal. Some people get an Xbox or buy a pet or study for exams to fill time. I kill people. It’s as simple as that. If you ask me, the only thing slightly strange thing was that I did it when I was only thirteen years old. And they say that girls mature quicker than boys.

Let me explain what I’m talking about.

I think the first question to get out the way is: how does a thirteen-year-old start thinking about murder? Well, I was always an early developer. The truth is, I was highly intelligent from a very young age, both in a book-ish kind of way and also, as I would find out later, in a serial killer-ish kind of way.

The main reason that I so candidly thought about murder, though, was not my intelligence, but my home life. My mother had died during childbirth, so I guess that I experienced death in my first moments on Earth. I’m not sure how much I was processing having just left the womb, but certainly it seems to have had an effect. I suppose you could say, that was the beginning of it.

A while after my mum passed away, my father turned to alcohol, a hobby he continued up to my thirteenth birthday. The alcoholism bothered my brother, Mike. He was a few years older than me but I was always ahead of him mentally. Mike used to come through to my room at night and find me on my bed, reading a book – Ripley’s Game, or something like that – and say, “Nicholas, are you awake? Dad’s shouting again.”

“I know,” I would snap back, “I have ears too.”

“What should we do?” he would moan.

“Just do something to keep your mind of it,” I’d tell him, “like read or write or something.”

“But I don’t like reading,” Mike would complain, at which point I decided to ignore him.

Seeing my father that way every night – shouting, bawling that he was going to kick our skulls in – it made me tough. Of course I knew that a man so drunk would never have the composure to make it up the stairs, so I was not particularly worried but his threats: I would just read away, happily in another world. Looking back on it, though, it definitely did change me – seeing another human being addicted to the very same thing that was destroying them. I never thought that would happen to me. At the time, though, I really thought very little of it – in the mornings I would step over my father’s sleeping, slobbering body at the bottom of the stairs, collect my school bag and walk straight out the door for school. I even found it amusing to shout, “Bye Dad,” knowing in witty irony that I would never get a response.

Soon, though, Mike began on the drink too. And I wasn’t too fond of that. It was out of principal, you see. By the time I was old enough to understand my Dad’s addiction, he was already beyond rescuing. Mike, on the other hand, I had known when he was a normal person. Mike, I could save. So I thought about it. I had a lot of free time since school didn’t challenge me much and, obviously, there was no strict parent at home. I took a while to get my head around it, but ultimately I realised I had to destroy the thing that was encouraging Mike to drink. My first target, at thirteen years old, became my very own father.

At three am one morning, I snuck out of bed and found my father in his usual position: the bottom of the stairs. I went down to him and tried to drag him up. Being thirteen, this was a strenuous task. After all, my father had a beer belly that weighed the same as the rest of his body put together. So to heave this up each and every stair took a lot out of me. But I managed eventually. I went through to the bathroom, filled a glass with water, brought it back, and splashed it in his face. After a while, the giant awoke.

“Dad! Dad! Get up!” I exclaimed excitably.

As he got to his feet he began shouting slurred speech. He peered around, his eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open, a long drip of drool hanging from the edge of his lip. That’s when I gave a little push. It didn’t have to be hard. The alcohol did the rest. He stumbled a bit, and then teetered on the edge of the top stair for what seemed like an eternity. He clawed at the air, like that coyote from the cartoons, before tumbling backwards. I heard his neck make a satisfying crunch with the edge of a stair before his body clambered down to his usual resting point. I went down and felt his pulse, and once I was satisfied that I had been successful, I went back to bed. I woke up with my alarm clock at the usual time, went out my room, slapped my face in pretend shock, and called the police.

It was that simple.

I think I killed for the first time when I was thirteen years old. It wasn’t a big deal. None of my murders were. It’s not as if any of them were particularly malicious or anything. I mean, I did have my reasons. Of course I did. Everybody has their reasons. Mostly, though, I did it just to fill the time. It’s really not that much of a big deal. Some people get an Xbox or buy a pet or study for exams to fill time. I kill people. It’s as simple as that. If you ask me, the only thing slightly strange thing was that I did it when I was only thirteen years old. And they say that girls mature quicker than boys.

Let me explain what I’m talking about.

I think the first question to get out the way is: how does a thirteen-year-old start thinking about murder? Well, I was always an early developer. The truth is, I was highly intelligent from a very young age, both in a book-ish kind of way and also, as I would find out later, in a serial killer-ish kind of way.

The main reason that I so candidly thought about murder, though, was not my intelligence, but my home life. My mother had died during childbirth, so I guess that I experienced death in my first moments on Earth. I’m not sure how much I was processing having just left the womb, but certainly it seems to have had an effect. I suppose you could say, that was the beginning of it.

A while after my mum passed away, my father turned to alcohol, a hobby he continued up to my thirteenth birthday. The alcoholism bothered my brother, Mike. He was a few years older than me but I was always ahead of him mentally. Mike used to come through to my room at night and find me on my bed, reading a book – Ripley’s Game, or something like that – and say, “Nicholas, are you awake? Dad’s shouting again.”

“I know,” I would snap back, “I have ears too.”

“What should we do?” he would moan.

“Just do something to keep your mind of it,” I’d tell him, “like read or write or something.”

“But I don’t like reading,” Mike would complain, at which point I decided to ignore him.

Seeing my father that way every night – shouting, bawling that he was going to kick our skulls in – it made me tough. Of course I knew that a man so drunk would never have the composure to make it up the stairs, so I was not particularly worried but his threats: I would just read away, happily in another world. Looking back on it, though, it definitely did change me – seeing another human being addicted to the very same thing that was destroying them. I never thought that would happen to me. At the time, though, I really thought very little of it – in the mornings I would step over my father’s sleeping, slobbering body at the bottom of the stairs, collect my school bag and walk straight out the door for school. I even found it amusing to shout, “Bye Dad,” knowing in witty irony that I would never get a response.

Soon, though, Mike began on the drink too. And I wasn’t too fond of that. It was out of principal, you see. By the time I was old enough to understand my Dad’s addiction, he was already beyond rescuing. Mike, on the other hand, I had known when he was a normal person. Mike, I could save. So I thought about it. I had a lot of free time since school didn’t challenge me much and, obviously, there was no strict parent at home. I took a while to get my head around it, but ultimately I realised I had to destroy the thing that was encouraging Mike to drink. My first target, at thirteen years old, became my very own father.

At three am one morning, I snuck out of bed and found my father in his usual position: the bottom of the stairs. I went down to him and tried to drag him up. Being thirteen, this was a strenuous task. After all, my father had a beer belly that weighed the same as the rest of his body put together. So to heave this up each and every stair took a lot out of me. But I managed eventually. I went through to the bathroom, filled a glass with water, brought it back, and splashed it in his face. After a while, the giant awoke.

“Dad! Dad! Get up!” I exclaimed excitably.

As he got to his feet he began shouting slurred speech. He peered around, his eyes narrowed and mouth slightly open, a long drip of drool hanging from the edge of his lip. That’s when I gave a little push. It didn’t have to be hard. The alcohol did the rest. He stumbled a bit, and then teetered on the edge of the top stair for what seemed like an eternity. He clawed at the air, like that coyote from the cartoons, before tumbling backwards. I heard his neck make a satisfying crunch with the edge of a stair before his body clambered down to his usual resting point. I went down and felt his pulse, and once I was satisfied that I had been successful, I went back to bed. I woke up with my alarm clock at the usual time, went out my room, slapped my face in pretend shock, and called the police.

It was that simple.

Ever since those bookshelves fell and crushed my stepfather, I’ve loved books.

I never liked him, not really. He was a ‘scholar’, an epicurist of literature, and always flaunted the fact that he’d read War and Peace, 5 times, once in Russian. It seemed to be his only real claim to fame but nevertheless it entranced our neighbours and they held him up as a god.

At that time, I never really liked books. I didn’t loathe them as such, more of a cruel indifference. School didn’t know what to do with me: ‘The girl doesn’t read!’. My stepfather was famous amongst the teachers; he came into parents evening all dressed up in a suit and started having conversations with my English teacher about Shakespeare and my philosophy teacher about existentialism and my geography teacher about globalisation. They made me their pet then, even though they’d previously ignored me. They still try now to eke out some hidden brilliance. Maybe one day I’ll let them find something- as it currently stands, I’ll stay quite silent, feign ignorance.

I give you now the brilliant thing that led to the destruction of my stepfather. The bookcase crushing him was really only an amusing ironic formality; it was the alcoholism that led him there.

He’d taken to accompanying his Dostoevsky with a large bottle of red wine. My mother ignored it, after all ‘wine is not an alchoholic’s alcohol’. They thought that all scholars took wine in moderation to mean guzzling bottles of red. I don’t know why he did it; I did ask him once though:
‘Sustanance- to keep me living until the pale hands of death shall grab me and drag me with her’
He meant his previous wife. Apparantly she was an alcoholic as well and he threw all her bottles out of the window and she jumped out after them. A guess, though it’s probably true.

Anyway, one day, he asks me to bring him some wine whilst he goes into our library and reads a nice bit of Dickens. I told him it was a bad idea but he insisted. Dickens was on the top shelf, after Dante and before Dostoevsky and my stepfather was relatively short. He stood on the stepladder but he was very drunk and toppled. He grabbed at the shelf but then of course it fell on top of him.

So you see, the whole thing really was a learning curve for me and everyone else. Mother and I never touched alcohol again and the teachers stopped using my stepfather as an example of academic brilliance.

And someday, I’ll be that example.

I stood in the room, staring down at the tragic thing that layed before me. There she was, caked with blood, lying on the dirty carpet. I felt numb. I felt sick. “Casey…” I whispered hoarsely. “I never meant for this to happen. I know I never told you this, but…” I choked for a moment. “I- I love you.” Her eyes flicked open. “You’re alive!” “Look behind you,” She said, weakly. I turned and felt a wave of nausea creep over me. “Hello, Mike,” the dirty, unshaven man said. He held his gun at his side, and stood in front of the boarded up window. “Why are you doing this to me?” I shouted at him. “Mike, you’re a fool. A blamed fool. Don’t you know who I am?” “No! I don’t! I don’t care!” “Mike, I’m your father. I only want what’s best for you. That’s why I shot her! She was using you.” “No she wasn’t! And- and you’re not my father! My father was killed 19 years ago!” “Oh, the lies. Your mother told you those lies.” He seemed calm. My every nerve seemed to jump with the urge to kill him, but something within me made me want to listen to the words he was saying. I knew Casey needed a doctor, but I had to do this one thing… “Your mother hated me. You know why she died, Mike? I killed her. Yeah! I stabbed her! Right in the heart. Do you know what a butterknife can do to someone’s heart, Mike?” I lost it. I ran right at him. He lifted the gun up, and I kept coming. I felt a tug at my jacket, and then there was a terrible pain in my chest that burned like grease from a frying pan. I kept going, and my hands hit his chest with a powerful blow. He fell back against the rotted board, which gave way. I caught the windowpane and stopped myself as he toppled out, falling two stories onto the junk car below. His neck cracked sickly as it smashed the rusty metal. My mind was a jumble of thoughts. I had just killed my own father. Casey! I had to get her to the hospital! I backed away from the window and gathered her up in my arms. I seemed dizzy as I went down the stairs and out the front door. I knew that I wasn’t getting her anywhere on my motorcycle- our only hope rested in the junk car. I pulled open the ruined yellow door and checked for the keys- but there were none. I threw the crumpled body off the hood and pulled the release lever. There was a couple wires laying in the driver’s seat and I snatched them up. I put one on the positive side of the coil and wired it to the battery, then used the other one to get power to the solenoid. The engine spun. It cranked for what seemed to be hours before starting, and when it started, white smoke billowed from the tailpipe. Casey used the last of her strength to get in the passenger door, and I got in and tried to turn the steering wheel. But there was steering lock! I gave it a firm twist, and with a loud pop, it spun. I slammed it into first, and the car gave a loud grinding protest. The low tires plopped as we raced through town, blowing through red lights. Since the glass was all broken, the tattered, peeling fabric of the roof slapped my face in the wind, and I tore it down and through it out of the car. “Hang in there, Casey, you’re gonna make it!” She was pale, and I knew that if I didn’t get her there soon, she wasn’t gonna make it. I looked up at a horrible sight- construction, and a traffic jam. But there was hope- a piece of metal propped up against a tube of some kind. I swerved to it, and construction workers waved frantically as I approached, then resigned to jumping out of my path. The car hit the metal with a thud, and I felt as we were lifted into the air. The tube rolled out from under the metal as we left it, and I looked down with wide eyes at the cars below us. I had that strange feeling of weightlessness, then the car went steadily downward and nearly destroyed itself upon landing. There was a terrible rattling from the front end, and steam billowed from the hood. The hospital was only two or three more blocks… The car suddenly wobbled. The steam from the engine began to obscure my vision, and I was dizzy, so dizzy. The big sign of the hospital came into view as the front left corner of the car dropped. I saw the tire bounce off the hood of a BMW and fly over pedestrians’ heads. The rotor made a hug grinding noise, and I used all my strength to keep the car on the road. Then the engine stalled. We slowed, and in a dreamlike state, I guided the car up onto the grass. I was aware of a spinning sensation, and when I looked up out of the windsheild, the emergency room doors were right in front of us. “We’re here, Casey. It’s all right.” Then the world went fuzzy, and the steering wheel came up and hit me in the face.

His name was Kieth. He was born in a small town not far from where he was now. He doesn’t want to remember the town. It brought him bad memories.

In his teens, his mother was a chef for a restaurant specifically for vegetarians in that little town. She would bring home large dishes of salads and saute creations for her son to digest. he was an only child and she was a single mom.

He would always throw away the vegetables when his mother didn’t look, always giving it to the earth outside. Instead, he would secretly earn money at a local chicken dish restaurant and feed on the food offered there for lunch break. His mother was at work the whole time, so she wouldn’t know.

His mother occasionally grew suspicious of him and asked him where he was earning his money. He would always reply, “I want to become a chef like you, mom. I work at a restaurant so I can watch the chefs do their job.” She was pride of him.

Out of the house now, he goes to the grocery store to buy one thing only: meat. Shopping was not his thing, so he had to get a whole lot of that tough, juicy flesh of any animal, as long as it didn’t go bad. He had a dracula stage play flyer posted on his bedroom door with the words ‘Blood is life” printed largely in white over the background painting of an old Transylvanian castle. The word “blood” was crossed out with the word meat with a permanent marker. Large stuffed deer heads were hung on the cabin wall. Teenage rebellion doesn’t seem to stop in the blossom of adulthood.

Today, on this very night, he was planning his masterpiece. He was going to roast an entire lamb in an oven and then fry some chicken in lard.
After putting the lamb in the oven, he started to cook his chicken. The lard sizzled and the natural scent of chicken swelled into the air with steam and a little smoke.
“Ahhhhh,” he exhaled after breathing in the fragrance. The steam rose in huge puffs and shook the large butcher knifes that hung on the lamp above the stove. He never used those butcher knifes, they were only for decoration. He only had decorations such as these on the inside of his small home. His house had no lawn, no grass, no plants. The big city was cramped enough to elliminate them. He liked the city and the meat because they were both the farthest things from grown vegetables.

The meat was finished. He pulled the lamb out with the heat pads and sniffed it intimately. The sniff was like a drug, like sniffing crack. He skipped to the dinner table, carefully so as to not to drop the pan. His started to whistle a tune from his favorite band: Disturbed. He then set the pan down and gets the chicken, cutting it to bits and sprinkling the pieces over the lamb chunks. He set his fork and knife on the edge of the tender flesh. He licked his lips. This moment would pass by quickly, even if he took several hours to finish it.

It was morning. Keith woke up. He stepped off his bed and bent over to stretch his tired muscles. Turning around, he knelt down on his knees and reached under his bed for his slippers. But something touched his hand. It felt smooth, but jagged on the sides. It was kind of flexible but hard and rigid. Covering his entire two fingers over it, he pulled it out from underneath the bed.

He continued to stare at it. He knew what it was. It was a human fingernail, with blood clots on the edges.

He shoved it into his left pocket and got ready for work.

i’m writing a script for school and i wanted to write a dark story surrounding the “21st century child” and the idea that so many kids have become more and more uncontrollable. I had an idea for three characters (all from past life experiences, but their names will be changed) and even though the characters are based off past people i’ve met, the story is completely fictional.

the story surrounds a senior in high school who’s mother has been in rehab most of her life and he lives with his grandmother. The grandmother is old and completely clueless, and the senior has a severe drug problem that he has passed on to his girlfriend who has become so attached to this senior that she follows everyone of his moves. The story also surrounds another student who is a loner who has been harassed by the senior on previous occasions and takes it very badly, so badly that the student has contemplated a school shooting. the story begins when the seniors mother has an overdose and falls into a coma, the senior then falls into a drug binge and eventually it leads to him getting in a car accident, that leads to the death of the other driver. After realizing how close he was to death, the senior realizes his wrong doings and begins to turn his life around. but the difficulty of quitting all of his habits is incredibly difficult. The senior also attempts to clean his girlfriends, who becomes very negative about his decision, but is unable to after he realizes that she owes money to a dangerous drug dealer. While all that occurs, it is revealed that the other driver that died was the mother of a close friend of the loner kid, who has soon to realize the Seniors horrific act.

sorry if it isn’t really good, i just came up with it and just wanted some opinions. thanx!

Asha hated her name. It sounded like a baby squealing for food. That’s probably why her mom had given her it. Back when ‘Pokemon’ had been all the craze, her then pregnant and teenage mother still didn’t have an ounce of imagination. Like the creatures on the show, the sound Asha made became her name.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on the dashboard of her mother’s car now. In three years and two days I could legally change my name, she thought ruefully. The car pulled into the parking lot, and Asha’s twenty-eight year-old mother turned down the radio.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” She pushed Asha’s long blonde hair away from her face.

“Marcus,” she answered, smirking on the inside. Her mother hated her new boyfriend. As expected, the woman pursed her lips.

“Are you coming into the store? I want to get the right cupcakes for your birthday party.”

“Nah, I’ll eat whatever. I wanna get started on my Science homework,” Asha said, slipping her headphones over her ears. She didn’t really even care if the party was held. Marcus wasn’t allowed to come.

“Oh…it’s just that I-” Asha’s mother cut off mid sentence and got out of the car. It was no use talking to her daughter when her ipod was cranked up loud enough to be heard from space.

Asha watched her mother walk away and slid into the driver’s seat. She grabbed hold of the steering wheel and pretended to drive. A few drops of rain spattered on the windshield from the murky, grey sky. Thunder could be heard in the distance. Asha glanced anxiously at Pick n’ Save. She hated storms, was starting to regret not going in with her mom. She thought about leaving the car and sprinting in for a moment, but as if the storm had heard her, the rain started coming down even harder. It had been going on and off like this all day, there was even a tornado watch for that very afternoon.

Asha saw a bolt of lightening in the distance, brightening up the eerie yellow world around her. She closed her eyes and put her head back against the headrest. Maybe she could just sleep through it. Maybe if she just went to sleep it would disappear. She tapped her hand to the beat of “How Long” and sung the lyrics loudly to drown out the storm.

The loudest crack of thunder yet pushed any calm thoughts Asha had managed to conjure up from her mind. Asha snapped her eyes wide open, and locked her door, just in case the tornado decided it wanted to come in. She turned to lock the passenger door and screamed. A thin lady was sitting in the seat next to her, staring straight into her eyes.

“Asha Bindefolds I presume?” She asked robotically. Asha screamed again and grabbed the door handle. It electrocuted her. She turned and faced the willowy woman, sizing her up. Asha could beat her up. She knew she could. Narrowing in on the stranger’s throat, she lunged. But she never reached the woman. She was suspended in mid-leap, her body frozen in time. Asha’s extended fingers were mere millimeters away from gouging out the lady’s eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you for volunteering this part of your life. I hope you don’t regret it.” In an instant, the woman dissolved before Asha’s eyes. Purple smoke began to fill the car, making it hard for her to breath. Asha screamed as frantically as one could with their mouth frozen shut as everything started spinning. The pleather and metal disappeared from view, and the tangy, sweet scent of orange gum that filled the car left Asha’s nose. She was completely senseless, except for the sound of Hinder pulsing in her ears. Then, suddenly, the world came back to life, and she was face down in a puddle in the middle of a cobblestone street.
Please don’t just tell me that it’s “good” tell me why it’s good, and if you don’t think it’s good, constructive criticism is HIGHLY appreciative.

Asha hated her name. It sounded like a baby squealing for food. That’s probably why her mom had given her it. Back when ‘Pokemon’ had been all the craze, her then pregnant and teenage mother still didn’t have an ounce of imagination. Like the creatures on the show, the sound Asha made became her name.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on the dashboard of her mother’s car now. In three years and two days I could legally change my name, she thought ruefully. The car pulled into the parking lot, and Asha’s twenty-eight year-old mother turned down the radio.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” She pushed Asha’s long blonde hair away from her face.

“Marcus,” she answered, smirking on the inside. Her mother hated her new boyfriend. As expected, the woman pursed her lips.

“Are you coming into the store? I want to get the right cupcakes for your birthday party.”

“Nah, I’ll eat whatever. I wanna get started on my Science homework,” Asha said, slipping her headphones over her ears. She didn’t really even care if the party was held. Marcus wasn’t allowed to come.

“Oh…it’s just that I-” Asha’s mother cut off mid sentence and got out of the car. It was no use talking to her daughter when her ipod was cranked up loud enough to be heard from space.

Asha watched her mother walk away and slid into the driver’s seat. She grabbed hold of the steering wheel and pretended to drive. A few drops of rain spattered on the windshield from the murky, grey sky. Thunder could be heard in the distance. Asha glanced anxiously at Pick n’ Save. She hated storms, was starting to regret not going in with her mom. She thought about leaving the car and sprinting in for a moment, but as if the storm had heard her, the rain started coming down even harder. It had been going on and off like this all day, there was even a tornado watch for that very afternoon.

Asha saw a bolt of lightening in the distance, brightening up the eerie yellow world around her. She closed her eyes and put her head back against the headrest. Maybe she could just sleep through it. Maybe if she just went to sleep it would disappear. She tapped her hand to the beat of “How Long” and sung the lyrics loudly to drown out the storm.

The loudest crack of thunder yet pushed any calm thoughts Asha had managed to conjure up from her mind. Asha snapped her eyes wide open, and locked her door, just in case the tornado decided it wanted to come in. She turned to lock the passenger door and screamed. A thin lady was sitting in the seat next to her, staring straight into her eyes.

“Asha Bindefolds I presume?” She asked robotically. Asha screamed again and grabbed the door handle. It electrocuted her. She turned and faced the willowy woman, sizing her up. Asha could beat her up. She knew she could. Narrowing in on the stranger’s throat, she lunged. But she never reached the woman. She was suspended in mid-leap, her body frozen in time. Asha’s extended fingers were mere millimeters away from gouging out the lady’s eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you for volunteering this part of your life. I hope you don’t regret it.” In an instant, the woman dissolved before Asha’s eyes. Purple smoke began to fill the car, making it hard for her to breath. Asha screamed as frantically as one could with their mouth frozen shut as everything started spinning. The pleather and metal disappeared from view, and the tangy, sweet scent of orange gum that filled the car left Asha’s nose. She was completely senseless, except for the sound of Hinder pulsing in her ears. Then, suddenly, the world came back to life, and she was face down in a puddle in the middle of a cobblestone street.
Please don’t just tell me that it’s “good” tell me why it’s good, and if you don’t think it’s good, constructive criticism is HIGHLY appreciative.

Asha hated her name. It sounded like a baby squealing for food. That’s probably why her mom had given her it. Back when ‘Pokemon’ had been all the craze, her then pregnant and teenage mother still didn’t have an ounce of imagination. Like the creatures on the show, the sound Asha made became her name.

She drummed her fingers impatiently on the dashboard of her mother’s car now. In three years and two days I could legally change my name, she thought ruefully. The car pulled into the parking lot, and Asha’s twenty-eight year-old mother turned down the radio.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” She pushed Asha’s long blonde hair away from her face.

“Marcus,” she answered, smirking on the inside. Her mother hated her new boyfriend. As expected, the woman pursed her lips.

“Are you coming into the store? I want to get the right cupcakes for your birthday party.”

“Nah, I’ll eat whatever. I wanna get started on my Science homework,” Asha said, slipping her headphones over her ears. She didn’t really even care if the party was held. Marcus wasn’t allowed to come.

“Oh…it’s just that I-” Asha’s mother cut off mid sentence and got out of the car. It was no use talking to her daughter when her ipod was cranked up loud enough to be heard from space.

Asha watched her mother walk away and slid into the driver’s seat. She grabbed hold of the steering wheel and pretended to drive. A few drops of rain spattered on the windshield from the murky, grey sky. Thunder could be heard in the distance. Asha glanced anxiously at Pick n’ Save. She hated storms, was starting to regret not going in with her mom. She thought about leaving the car and sprinting in for a moment, but as if the storm had heard her, the rain started coming down even harder. It had been going on and off like this all day, there was even a tornado watch for that very afternoon.

Asha saw a bolt of lightening in the distance, brightening up the eerie yellow world around her. She closed her eyes and put her head back against the headrest. Maybe she could just sleep through it. Maybe if she just went to sleep it would disappear. She tapped her hand to the beat of “How Long” and sung the lyrics loudly to drown out the storm.

The loudest crack of thunder yet pushed any calm thoughts Asha had managed to conjure up from her mind. Asha snapped her eyes wide open, and locked her door, just in case the tornado decided it wanted to come in. She turned to lock the passenger door and screamed. A thin lady was sitting in the seat next to her, staring straight into her eyes.

“Asha Bindefolds I presume?” She asked robotically. Asha screamed again and grabbed the door handle. It electrocuted her. She turned and faced the willowy woman, sizing her up. Asha could beat her up. She knew she could. Narrowing in on the stranger’s throat, she lunged. But she never reached the woman. She was suspended in mid-leap, her body frozen in time. Asha’s extended fingers were mere millimeters away from gouging out the lady’s eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Thank you for volunteering this part of your life. I hope you don’t regret it.” In an instant, the woman dissolved before Asha’s eyes. Purple smoke began to fill the car, making it hard for her to breath. Asha screamed as frantically as one could with their mouth frozen shut as everything started spinning. The pleather and metal disappeared from view, and the tangy, sweet scent of orange gum that filled the car left Asha’s nose. She was completely senseless, except for the sound of Hinder pulsing in her ears. Then, suddenly, the world came back to life, and she was face down in a puddle in the middle of a cobblestone street.
Please don’t just tell me that it’s “good” tell me why it’s good, and if you don’t think it’s good, constructive criticism is HIGHLY appreciative.

My brother has been an a55hole all his life.
He attempted suicide aged 13 for attention (I was 12).
Our parents divorced mainly because of it, and because of my Dad’s drinking and affairs.
We moved over 200 miles away in UK and I only got to see my Dad twice a year. (I tried and tried to keep my parents together, but to no avail.
When my brother turned 16 he went back to live with Dad. Our Mum didn’t seem to mind.
He returned to our new home when he was 17, disappointed at Dad’s behaviour.
He met a girl and they married when he was 24. Had a girl and a boy. We did everything aunts and uncles do for their nieces and nephews.
I married my first ever love the following year, aged 24. Had a boy and a girl. My brother did nothing for our children.
We really involved my Dad in his grandchildrens’ lives, but his alcoholism got in the way.
My brother had an affair.
Our mother got married to her long term boyfriend in April 2004.
My brother fell out with his our new step father. My mother turned a blind eye to this.
Our real father became ill, got sclerosis of the liver Christmas 2004 and died March 2005.
My brother didn’t let me scatter Dad’s ashes, but selfishly did that by himself. My brother fell out with me for no reason, like he falls out with everyone. I tried and pleaded with him to make it up with me, especially as we were emigrating and our mother would be in the middle of a stupid rift.
My husband and children and I emigrated to Canada in June 2005.
My mother comes over regularly and we have a good relationship and are wanting to sponsor her out here soon.
My brother has just e-mailed me out of the blue – after not speaking to me for over 4 yrs and wants us to be on speaking terms as it’s his daughter’s 21st and our Mum’s 70th in autumn.
I have been ignored on several occasions by him when I have broached the subject before we emigrated, but now that he wants to reconcile, he thinks I should jump to his command.
I am a big softy, and have only ever wanted there to never be a family rift. As I said earlier, I wanted my parents to stay together.
My brother has been melodramatic all his life and done several soul destroying things.
Now, he wants us all to re-unite but won’t apologize for all his mistakes.
My husband and I and our children were actually going to visit the UK this autumn to see my Mum, without my brother’s interference.

What do you think I should do?
I really need outsiders’ opinions to look at this sorry mess objectionally.
Thank you so much for your time, I am sorry it’s so long.
Yours emotionally,
I always wanted no family rift, but he wouldn’t listen all those years ago and now I feel that I shouldn’t just jump when he wants me to.

ok my bf said he was going to write this to his parents this to his parents……….
Hello mother hello father i’ve been smoking marajuana i like crack but weed is better and thats why i’m sending you F***ing letter
of course its not true he wanted to do this for a joke
please tell me what do you think

funny dumb what

I started using crystal in Jan. and becme VERY addicted. I told my husband I needed help and he had every excuse possible. On March 11th my mother in law flew in to “help us pack”. She only had a one way ticket though. On the 16th my husband found drugs in my purse and called mp’s and CID. I got 4 counts of possion. On the 23rd he served me with divorce papers. He said they were suposed to be seperation papers. Now he has since gotten a restraining order stating that I am violent! He orginally tried to make me sign over my rights to our 2 year old and when I said no he filed the restraing order. He says that we will work on us when he gets home from Iraq and that he still loves me. His mother and I dont get along and now I feel like she has taken over my life. She tells him what to do and when I say something he says I just hate his mom. I am only allowed supervised visits with my daughter(his mom supervises, she knows how bad I miss him and yet still calls and talks to him when I am around then asks “when I am going to just give up” ), I was only allowed to take my clothes and personal items, and I cant talk to my husband or go home. I do NOT want a divorce! He is not the same man I married. He continues to lie to the courts and is suing me for custody to give to hs mom. He is playing the whole single military dad part for everything when he has been gone 9 monhs of her life! My lawyer doesnt allow me to speak in court. I want to tell my side!! I am leaving for rehab on the 16th as soon as we get out of court. He goes to Iraq on the 28th. How do I fiix this?? How do I win my child even though I screwed up this much? She is all I have left! I feel very betrayed by him. He said that he decided to do this when I brought drugs home. Why call cops and not rehab?? Is there any love left? PLEASE HELP!! I am all alone! Please no answers telling me how bad drugs are, believe me, I KNOW!!! I had a clean record and ran a daycare before I started using. Also will a 2 year old remember this? Also are misdomenors stay on your record?/
Also, my plan is for my daughter to live with my mom while I get help. I know that I can not take care of her now. She will be able to see me on weekends at least. If she goes with his mom neither parent will be there. Yes he was defending our country, I am also in the military. One last thing, I am not saying that this isnt my fault because I know it is and i accept full blame and yes I knew how horrible it was.

My aunt told me it will take years. This is due to depression and being homesick. Most of my family consider me to be anorexic but I think I am ‘leading to’ because I refuse food but sometimes I binge and grabe the opportunity to eat ‘in secret.’ Please help me. I don’t know what are the right foods to eat… I want to live and help myself. But I don’t want to get fat and I’m afraid of gaining weight. I still stop eating but when my mom is there, I don’t have the choice but to eat or else she will scold me of not eating. Please give me advice… I know I need professional help but still, I need other’s advice- other people’s perspective. I am not fat before but still I don’t want to go back to what I my weight before. HELP!

the way…YOU´RE NOT FREE!! YOU HAVE A CHAIN ON YOUR LEG THAT SAYS THAT YOU HAVE TO BE AT HOME WHEN I WAKE UP!!!! Jake-*slaps her again* You´re not my mom!!!! Honey-Obviously not!! Because my kids would be more civilized!!!!! Jake-What do you mean with that?!? Honey-Like you wouldn´t know it!! You get drunk every day! You´re addicted to drugs, to alcohol and sex! Jake-But how can I be addicted to sex when you and I never had? Honey-*goes into their bedroom; he follows her* Oh, well that´s …

term memory loss now. From then i lived with my grandma and uncle. In 8th grade she died, (i found here laying in the bathroom, she had thrown up blood or something and then fell, all i k now is that the whole bathroom was red) that was pretty traumatic, i then stayed living with my uncle. I saw my mom every week, shes at rehab for her head injury. Recently she broke her leg and somethng is wrong with her head. Shes at a nursing home and barely makes any sense. My aunt is an alcoholic but is for the most part alright, i talk to her everyday. When she drinks its just hard too:-/. My uncle takes care of me now. Hes great but expects so much out of me. I take care of all the chores & just deal with so mcuh. I have a boyfriend but at times can be sometimes verbally abusive and jelous. I dont kno this all is so overwhelming at times. Somtimes im happy but othere times i just.. get so sad. Its hard to sleep at night sometimes. Is this anxiety? Answers please:-/. Not sure what to do.