Nothing is ever simple. no matter what there always seems to be complications, duties that stand in the way. Never can you fully be yourself. Your someone's daughter , someone's sister, someone's wife and eventually someone's mother. Is maternal instincts hereditary, did bad parenting pass through the gene pool of life.
I used to read about those mothers in the papers, and think what a disgrace, how could they destroy their children's lives, sick,heartless is what I called them. Yet I realise now they were Ill, desperate, so in love with their children that they couldn't bare to leave them behind. No one understood them, no one saw the pain, anguish the hidden secrets they harboured. Neighbours, friends, family saw what they wanted to see, white picket fence, a mum a dad, happy children. No one realising that the white picket fence has layers of paint, layers of secrets. I changed my opinion on these mothers, in July 2000, when my daughter Sarah was four, and her younger brother seb was a year. I no longer saw monsters, but people, people who were defeated by life, people who wanted to control their uncontrollable situations. I strangely and sickly saw love. On the 9th of July 2000, I killed my son seb by smothering him during a bedtime lullaby, I did the same to Sarah, then proceeded to slit my own wrists.
I woke that evening in a hospital, I was alone and wondered for the briefest of minutes if I was in limbo, if I was waiting to be assessed before going to heaven. I saw the silhouette of a man against the blinded door, his broad shoulders, strong stance. I think I knew then I had failed in what I had set out to achieve, however confused by my new surroundings, and being naive enough to believe I had done it. I withdrew myself from the bed I lay, and stepped silently across the tiled floor towards the door. On approach I heard muffled voices, two separate voices two separate men. One man was angry, I could almost hear the grinding of his teeth as he spat out his venomous words. \"bitch\". \"murderer\". \"mother\". I was at the door now, my hand sweaty on the handle. I yanked the door open. The two men faced me, their faces filled with shock for only a moment before their true feelings set in. The surly man who had been guarding my room was a middle aged police officer, his eyes set to stone just above my eye level. He couldn't look me in the eye, he like all the others believed I was a monster. The other man, my husband, Luke. Sporty build, dark hair that flopped sweetly on to his forehead and green eyes that rivalled most sea greens. His eyes filled with sorrow, grief anger, this made him looked crazed, stuck between not knowing whether to punch me or embrace me. This madness strangely made his eyes all the more beautiful, however terrifying he appeared to me at this moment. I left the door open and slowly retreated into the room, backed up onto the bed, pulled the thin sheet above my head, shut my eyes and just existed.
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