If You’re Addicted to Something, Just Know That Your Kids Are Watching, And They Might Pick Up The Habit

I’ve always felt like there was a hole in me that I just couldn’t fill. And that’s due to what my parents left me.

As a kid, I didn’t know what addiction was. I didn’t know what the long red streaks on the inside of my mother’s forearms meant, and why she would pass out for hours at a time, or why her eyes would have that faraway look, or why she might faint after a fresh one appeared. I didn’t know what the syringes were for that I occasionally found around the house, sometimes drops of blood still at their tips.

But as I got older, I discovered more about her habits. And I found out why my father let it go on, encouraged it, even, though it was tearing our family apart. Sometimes it happened multiple times a day, trying to feed the addiction, the craving. And I guess I can’t blame them- studies show that addictions can be genetic. Or maybe I just tell myself that now, years afterward, so I can pass along the guilt of my own habit.

When I went to high school, I remember seeing some kids doing it in the dark back corner of a seedy party. And I remember being confused, because they were doing it all wrong.

“It’s backwards, “ I said, frowning, watching as they injected themselves after they had tied the rubber cord about their arm so that the veins would swell, “You’re supposed to pull it out, not push it in.”

They’d laughed at me then, and I’d shaken my head at their stupidity. But I’d started using that year, just like I’d learned from my parents when they weren’t looking. I’d had a few close calls, and a friend of mine had almost died, but in the end nothing too bad had happened. Except I that I had become hooked..

I was sad when my mother died as a result the addiction. When my father emerged from the room crying, and I’d rushed inside to see two new red marks on her, her eyes closed and face pale as she lay on the bed. And I heard the gunshot moments later as my father took his own life, and fell to the carpet. Because he couldn’t control his addiction, and the syringes of her blood weren’t good enough for his urges anymore, and the two red marks on my mother’s neck matched the red on his teeth.

Every year, I visit their grave Ina small cemetery towards the edge of town, their tombstones nestled close to each other. For my mother, I pour out a glass full of whiskey, her favorite drink. And for my father, I pour a vial of fresh blood, and watch as it seeps into the dirt, wondering if he still craves it.

I’ve always felt like there was a hole in me that I just couldn’t fill. And that’s due to what my parents left me.

A thirst.


Reported By Leo

For an additional creepy report by me, concerning the traumatizing affair of a young boy struck blind in a freak accident and his interractions with the demonic world, read Eden’s Eye

by LeoDuhVinci
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