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The Uncovering

The enticing nuances that are gathered while venturing down the roads of introspection are oxidizing, a trinket of empowerment. Charcoal colored walls became his therapist, as he laid there shackled in PTSD.  Conversations were lurking into the crevices of his mind. An elated and distorted tone raddled his soul: “I wasn’t meant to have kids. Doctors always told me I couldn’t conceive one. You’re just like your father, I’m surprised you haven’t hit me yet.”  
   
His eyes closed, and a translucent roller-coaster presented itself on tracks made of clouds. There were sixteen seats, each emitting their own aura. He  sat in in the second seat in the first row of seats. Alexander was in a induced comatose state, as soon as he locked in his seat belt. A sign pulsating different hues mirroring that of the passenger protruded from the nose of the roller-coaster: "The Wandering". An amethyst rift appeared, and off they went. As the roller-coaster traveled on those clouds, the background became his memories and they were being projected in chronological order.    
    
It brought Alexander to an apartment that he lived in at NYC, in one of the five boroughs known as The Bronx. The area was Allerton Avenue. His seat reclined back, eyes are stilled at the sight of this heart wrenching bathroom floor. He drifts into one of their infamous episodes.  An alabaster tile was ripped from the floor beneath her feet. Cocaine, liquor, and abandonment on a multitude of endeavors became her shield and sword incapacitating anything that defied her morals.    
   
His feet became centered and cemented to the entrance of the bathroom. A voice escaping entrapment wandered off: “Why are you hurting yourself, what have you become?” He wasn’t an expert on interacting with drug addicts;however, that night became the catalyst for many a downfall to come.  
   
Her amber irises aligned with her sons pupils, solidifying the disparity between the two. She began to bellow in her psychopathic antics: “How fucking dare you ask me anything. I gave you life, and I can take it whenever I want.” His personality started to shift rapidly while trying to conceptualize this traumatic betrayal.    
   
His heart became a microphone, their memories were the 3.5 mm jack and amplifier that connected him to combat his creator.  
   
“I love you, whenever you’re in pain, I suffer as well. How could I value the sight of you entrapping yourself into insanity." He couldn't comprehend how she valued escapism at the price of perpetual abandonment."    
   
His words began to enrage her. She caught her reflection through a shattered hand mirror; eclipsing normalcy by splitting her image into two personas.    
   
The loving, and the maniac manipulator, were the monikers encapsulating her on a daily basis. She began to dress herself in the insight this episode provided. Tears came into existence, she broke the tile that was in her hand in half, and then proceeded to pick up one of the fragments. Her cynical glare and manipulative smile shattered his perception of life.    
   
He knew of her masquerading charades, so he began to internalize vigilance.“Get the fuck out of my house, no son of mine would trample on the mentally ill. You know I’m a functioning sociopath.”, was dinner talk and became common place in that household. After a while, he perceived her lack of will power to change as excuses, which inadvertently subverted his attention from reality. His values were conflicting with her notions of abandonment and substance abuse.    
   
A remnant of self value was all he had left, and he knew there wasn’t a way to revert these disparaging emotions, so the cycle of dysfunction began. A battle of guilt tripping ensued. “I’m your fucking son, you always said you wouldn’t be able to have kids, that my sister and I were miracles, yet here you are watching our futures cascade as fast as your intolerance for normalcy.”Her mouth began to shuffle left and right, each motion motivated by her substances.“You see this”, as she pointed to the broken tile. “What of it?”She began to carve a line of trauma into her face, as their pupils locked. “Keep talking shit boy, and you’ll be next.”    
   
His thoughts began to fragment, so then he started to seal away his love, and began to unsheathe the protector of his soul; which was a past iteration of himself sitting in a chair, wrapped in chains. His right hand brushed up against his forehead, and then its eyes opened. He greeted his past self:"I miss you so much Alex. I'm sorry that I became lost in the pursuit of happiness and equality with our creator."His younger self hugged him, began to hum, and then he placed his hands on his shoulders. Their pupils are now locked and the younger one professes his interpretation on what has transpired."You did what was right, and there's nothing wrong with that, continue to stay vigilant in the eyes of any oppressor. Remember we matter, regardless of how dreadful this is, we have our own life that she gave us, and we mustn't waste it."After their talk, the notion of 'fight fire with fire' began more prominent. This gave him a reason to dance in her madness in the hopes of pulling out his childhood hero from this void. A whole lot easier said than done.    
   
As he delved deeper into personifying his oppressors divisive nature. A translucent tombstone began to form behind his feet: ‘here lies the unforgotten’. He began marching down a path riddled with regret and discovery.
Manley_Pointer
Written by Manley_Pointer
Published
Author's Note
Spectating the downfall of your creator, can be a traumatic experience. Some are able to pull through, others fall victim to the same dysfunctional value system that was instilled upon them.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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