There was a time when being innocent and clueless was the only way to escape the harsh truth of reality. Obviously, all good things must come to an end.

I was only eleven when my mother started sharing her real life problems with me, as well as my little brother. This was a strange change. The first time this happened was when dad left. She had explained to us that, “Sometimes, two people don’t get along very well after a while, so they go their separate ways. No, you're not supposed to like it.” I understood, and that was fine. However, when you go downstairs in the middle of the night to get some milk and you find your mother cutting up old pictures of the two of them and sobbing into massive piles of tissues, you get a feeling it's not fine. This was only the first time dad left and mom wasn’t handling it well. She spent most of her days laying in bed, crying until the tears could not fall from her eyes anymore, then she’d whimper like a lost puppy. That’s when I noticed a big glass bottle on her nightstand one afternoon. Oh no, I thought to myself, anything but alcohol. She grew angry and hostile. One bottle became ten, ten to twenty, twenty to forty-five. Her rage escalated, Harrison and I were no match for her intoxicated madness.

Dad came home a month and a half after the drinking began, and left three weeks later. Mom wasn't doing well. In fact, it was worse than before. Harrison slept in the bed with mom at night in case she woke up. With mom so depressed that getting out of bed was not an option anymore, I provided her with food and willed her off of the unhealthy amounts of alcohol. She'd stare at the walls, motionless, the air in her bedroom only moving slightly with every breath she took.

One night was not as quiet as all the rest. It was two in the morning when the screaming started. I was jolted awake by the blood curdling sound of my brother's cries. They weren't scared or sorrowful - it was pain. I had busted open the locked door to my mother's bedroom to find her tossing my baby brother as if he were a rag doll. She turned to look at me, her face full of fright. The fear and depression and regret were clearly expressed on her face, none of which I had ever noticed before. She turned back to him, then glimpsed down at her hands in horror. I rushed over to Harrison, gently collecting his bruised body frame. He was bleeding from somewhere, and he gripped my shirt and whispered, “She needs help. She needs dad.”

Harrison was alright a week later, and he didn't sleep with mom anymore. Instead, he slept with me. I had stopped trying to care for my mother, I figured if she needed food she'd get it herself. She didn't. The door to her bedroom remained closed. Harrison had told me some of the things mom had told him in the middle of the night when she’d wake up, shaken. He didn't understand most of what she said, he was young and had no prior experience with a depressed person. However, I did. Mom was slipping. Harrison asked her that night when dad was coming back, and she flew off the handle.

This was all during the summer before sixth grade, and once school started up again, dad was back. He made us lunches every morning and dinner every night. He never bothered checking in on mom, he left her alone. We came home one day and dad wasn't there, as I'd expected, I figured he had flaked out on us again. The kitchen felt still and eerie. Something wasn't sitting right with me, and I felt compelled to check mom's room. The knob was still broken from when I got Harrison out that night, but it was locked somehow. Harrison tried to peek in behind me, but I was quick to shield him from the sight of our lifeless mother. There were slices up her arms and legs, still sticky with blood. Her body dangled loosely from the ceiling, her feet inches away from her dismantled bed. She was half naked, only a brassiere and panties of a bright ocean blue to cover her. She looked peaceful, even though she was roughly hung. I told Harrison to wait in the kitchen for a minute, I had to think of a way to explain this to him. I shut the door softly, as if i might disturb her. I was trying to swiftly process this. Her figure was flawless, she was beautiful. Her porcelain skin was glowing in the afternoon sunshine, and the pain and suffering in her face was gone.

“I hope you've reached a better place,” I croaked. I didn't expect to cry, I knew this was coming. But my mom was there in front of me, the shell of a person who would never return. She was gleeful and full of life before dad left. Always happy. I guessed when the love of her life left her, she couldn't take it. She didn't know what to do, how to feel, and this was the only way she knew how to get out. I reached up and carefully untied the rope. When she fell to the bed, I rested her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. I pulled the covers up over her. I hesitated before I left. I took in one last look at my mother, rushed over to her and kissed her forehead.

“I will never let myself, or Harrison, fall into this same pattern, alright? I promise,” I brushed her hair out of her face, “And I won’t let either of us make anyone feel this way.” I got up and exited quietly.

He was devastated. He didn't know what else to do other than rub his eyes and press his face into the palms of his hands.

Harrison was still out of the loop, so I took him into his bedroom and sat at the end of his bed. He gave me a small smile and sat as well.

“Do you remember when mommy told us about how, sometimes, when two people don't get along very well, they distance themselves from each other?”

He nodded.

“Well, sometimes-” I choked, my brother's face, puzzled and unknowing, made it very difficult for me to deliver this news I was about to present to him, and crushed me in every way possible. “I'm sorry. Sometimes, when people are very sad, they distance themselves from this place. And, eventually, they don't feel like they have any business being in our world anymore. They feel lost and hopeless, so they leave. They leave this place so they can be happy somewhere else. Does this make sense?”

He nodded again.

“Well, mommy decided it was best if she went to find a better place. She's gone, Harry.”

His hopeful smile was reduced to a puddle of tears. He crawled to the end of the bed and nestled his shaking body in my lap. We stayed that way for a while before dad came in and told us it was time for dinner.

Dad didn't seem upset in the slightest. He had little reaction to the news, and he didn't know what we'd do with her body. We buried her a few days later, just so she had a place to go. Dad took care of us; fed us, clothed us, kept the household moving. That is, until he left us again.

Every time he left, there was no warning, no explanation as to why, nothing. He'd just leave when nobody was around, or when we were asleep. It was my twelfth birthday when he left for the third time, and I was perplexed by this. I guess I had a little glimmer of hope that my father would stick around, at least for the day. It wasn't anything extravagant, Harrison made a card for me and that was all. Later that night, I'd found a small note under a book in my room. It was my favorite book, and the note was in an unfamiliar handwriting. It read something along these lines:

“I know it’s your birthday. How could I forget my own child’s birthday- exactly, I couldn’t. I want you to know that I love you and Harrison. You kids are my world, whether you're in it this moment or not. I know that every time I leave it’s hard on you two, but I don’t want you to worry this time. I plan on staying with you until you both are old enough to run the house yourselves. I know you’ve been doing it for a while now already, and you’ve been doing a wonderful job. But I think you deserve a break. I will be back tomorrow, I’ve been on a job hunt recently. I love you both, sleep well (Dinner is in the refrigerator).”

Dad was never the friendliest man. He loved us dearly, but was never quite sure how to express his affection. As the years slowly passed, dad grew more and more distant. He’d disappear so often, I started forgetting what he looked like at times. Harrison was growing up fast, and dad was rarely around to help him cope with these changes.

Puberty was the least of our worries. School was our main priority, and not even the absence of our father could distract us. Dad was gone for weeks at a time. Weeks turned to months, and we were getting worried. Summer was on again and we decided it was best to see what dad was up to. The only problem was we had no recollection of where he said he may be the last time he left. It had been so long since we’d talked to him, it was difficult to decide where he’d be. Knowing very little about my father, Harrison and I decided to check his job first. He worked at a retirement home not to far from the house. We asked some of his co workers if they’d seen him around recently, and they exchanged looks.

“Your dad was admitted to the hospital not to long ago,” one of the woman said hesitantly, “He’s been having bad headaches and was constantly mixing up requests from some of our residents. He’s in room B774, I checked on him yesterday.” I thanked the lady greatly and Harrison tugged my shirt. He and I rushed to the hospital.

        The nurses had taken us directly to his room. They had explained to us that the diagnosis was still undetermined. They had seen him wandering every so often, and thought it was best to check him in. Harrison and I insisted on staying with dad. It took a month before they had diagnosed him; He had Alzheimer’s disease. The illness was terminal, so we had waited and watched his memory slowly fade. Every day he'd tell us he loved us, even when he forgot who Harrison was. He thought I was a co worker of his, and would start to tear up when he realized I was his child. It had been two months post-diagnosis and he didn’t know us at all. He was just as cold to us as he had been to any stranger he came across. His mind was deteriorating, little by little.

        On his birthday, Harrison and I brought him flowers and a giant card. We were surprised he was doing so well that day, considering the week before he could only manage to stare at the wall blankly and sleep. Harrison explained to him what a birthday was and that we celebrated his that day. He had grinned from ear to ear, a tear escaping his eye. He thanked us over and over, although he didn’t really know who we were. The nurses told us not to remind him of our identities so he wouldn’t feel terrible for forgetting his family.

        I had a horrible sleeping pattern, waking up one or two hours after falling asleep. I had woken up in the middle of the night, heavy breathing consuming my ears. Harrison switched on a light and reached for dad’s hand. Dad clutched his hand firmly, and looked him directly in the eyes.

        “Harrison, call a nurse. Please,” he wheezed, and Harrison briskly obeyed, ignoring his shock. I took his place, my father’s face flushed with red and his hand tightly wound around mine. His breathing quickened, and I realized; he was having a heart attack.

        “Dad, let me go.”

        He shook his head and gripped tighter.

        “I can save you if you let me go. I need to you regulate your breathing. Slow it down. Mind over matter, okay?”

        He nodded uneasily. He released my hand and I sprinted out of the room. I looked around until I spotted the nurse who had been caring for him. I ran to her and grabbed her wrist.

        “Help him, please, he’s having a heart attack. Please, come with me,” I begged. She agreed and we went back to the room. Dad’s breathing was slower now, and his eyes were wide with incomprehensive fear. The nurse went over to a locked closet in the corner, and smashed it with a metal water canteen. She thrusted open a contraption and attached straps to my father’s heaving body. Though his breathing had slowed, his chest contracted. His heart hammered his ribs, and the nurse started the machine.

        Dad made a full recovery. From the heart attack, that is. His thoughts were still jumbled, his words slurred and he started stuttering. Harrison cried every night, he hoped and prayed for dad to remember something. We both knew it wasn’t going to happen, but the hope was still there. Dad was sinking in a miserable spiral of uncontrollable frustration and doubt. His mind was being toyed with, his thoughts were tainted and tortured. He hadn't understood where we were, or who he was for months. His memory was almost completely diminished, and he could barely communicate.

He passed away a few months later. He was asleep, though, so I reckon it was painless and peaceful. It was as if he lived his entire life over again, but backwards, in a span of seven months. By the time his lifeline snapped, he only knew a few words and couldn't do anything for himself. He was an infant trapped in a middle aged man's body.

Foster homes were very open to taking in both Harrison and I, considering we would only be there for a few years. We were shipped off to a lovely neighborhood in Maine. The salty ocean breeze was bitter, however, the view made up for the excruciating freeze. Our foster parents were two dads, with four other children; One was adopted, the other three were being fostered like us. All six of us were in our late teens, and it was a rare occasion when everyone was in the house together. Harrison and I adjusted quickly to how swift life continued around us. We had started attending a new school, and everyday seemed easier and simpler compared to the past few years.

Juggling school and work was quite the challenge, and I did a lot better than Harrison. His report cards consisted of mostly C’s and B’s, with the occasional A in a ridiculously effortless class. He and I worked at a nearby library together, usually only there for a few hours to organize the books and set up for upcoming events. Unfortunately, Harrison’s attendance was increasingly lowering. I was worried about him, my brother was more involved with influential friends than the things that mattered more.

He would come to me all the time when we were young. All he wanted was to play, have someone there for him. I was his rock, and he loved me.Whenever he needed me,  he’d hit the ground running directly into my arms. Harrison was my best friend for the majority of my life, and it was difficult for me to let him go. I had felt like a mother empty-nesting. Although I wasn’t his mother, I practically raised him single-handedly. He had a lot of new friends now, and he prefered being left alone when he was at home. He only cared about his friends, and maybe his homework.

The one time I actually needed him, he vanished. I was in the library, rearranging books and reviewing my schedule for the week. As I usually had, I made a mental note of everything and kept them secured in the back of my mind. This particular week, though, was a stressful one.

When you go home, I recalled back to myself, you have to grab milk and bread on the way, finish that project for science class, revise that paper, go get Harrison for his friend’s house, and go visit mom.

Mom. It had been a year since i found her in our old home. Her memory wasn’t brought up often, but the pain still boiled underneath. She was gone, and a year after, he was gone, too.

I don’t believe her death was a selfish choice, it was one of the best decisions she’s ever made, really. Of course I miss her, it’d be foolish if I didn’t, but she had no reason to live in such hell until her old age took her. She was undeniably ill, not just from dad’s absence, but from everything around her. She couldn’t will herself back into the joys of life with misery weighing her down. Mom had let go of everything years prior to her death. She had been lost inside before it was physically noticeable the day I found her dangling from the ceiling of her little bedroom.

She is the reason I am explaining myself. I feel pangs of guilt every so often, as if there was something more I could have done. Someone could have stopped her, but with no money came no help, and no help meant that what happened was bound to anyways. There was nothing I could do, I was a twelve year old with no way of knowing how to handle someone who was having the good strangled out of them. I was too naive.