So this is the end of the ride I suppose. This is my final entry. This is how it ends.
What I’m trying to say.
Is I have hid some things from all of you.
So people have been asking this for a while. It’s the kind of thing that I ignored, and I hid behind lies. I hid behind what I thought would protect me.
I hid behind my own foolishness.
I’ll just say it, I’m rambling, at this rate there is no way that I will ever get it out.
I killed my mother.
I was seven years old when it happened.
Just another day, you might think.
I guess I didn’t know, I was too young to understand it, too young to do anything.
Too young to save a life.
Now, as you all know, my mother had an EpiPen, I’m not sure if I mentioned it or not, but it was because she had an extreme allergy to bee stings.
One day though, she had an anaphylactic fit, induced by said allergy to these stings. I can still remember it, a moment printed, no carved, in to my mind.
It was a hot summers day, and my mother had this sort of tradition I suppose of making me what was known to me and her as a “Cranberorangeade”. In English, cranberry , orange and lemonade all mixed together.
As you can imagine, this attracted bees like a horse attracts flies.
And that caused it.
A bee flew in the window, all innocent. My mother saw it, panicked, I guess she must have startled it or something, I can’t quite remember.
But then the next second she was on the floor shaking.
She had started convulsing, and was able to get her EpiPen out, but not inject herself.
It dropped to my feet.
I picked it up.
Looked at my mother, convulsing on the floor.
Dying on the floor.
I ran as if I could escape the nightmare.
My mother died.
I killed my mother.
I murdered my mother.
I got my father a few minutes later, but it was too late. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was long gone.
I watched my own mother die. She created me, and I destroyed her. I had a chance to save her, I had the medicine in my hand.
But it may as well have been the knife.
How? All it would have taken was a little bit of common sense from me. I could have saved my mother.
It kills me just to think about it.
I miss her, if only I could have her back. I want her back.
I need her back.
I was seven years old, I guess I didn’t truly understand what I had done, how I had killed her.
I would say that the first time I really understood what I had done was when I was ten, ever since then, whenever I have asked my father about it, he has always said that she died when none of us were in the room. I guess he is just trying to protect me.
Maybe he doesn’t know that I killed her.
I don’t know why I hid this from everybody, but I am truly sorry.
I finally accept it.
I thought I would tell my stalker.
That I accepted it.
Here is the log of out talk, of how I tried to find the answers, of how I admitted to what I had done.
And for those of you who can view it, the following is as it reads.
You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You both like acceptance.
You: I accept it. I finally accept it.
Stranger: Thank you lamb
Stranger has disconnected.
So there you go. I accept it.
I wanted to ask him questions, hence my frantic “Wait” at the end. I wanted to find out who he was. I wanted to discover exactly why he had chosen to stalk me.
Why he chose to help me.
But no, he left, he’s never left before.
It was always me, always running.
I’ve tried to make contact with him. I’ve made multiple attempts to find him again on Omegle. Every single time I meet a random stranger. He is no longer existent. He’s gone. He saved me. And he’s gone.
If you’re reading this, my stalker. My friend.
Please, speak with me one final time. Let me find the answers. Let me discover. Have I not proved myself worthy?
I will assume that you are reading this, and I want to put out a thank you to you. You have saved me. You made me see the light. Let me accept it.
I would also like to thank everybody who came to my aid, every single soul out there who lent a helping hand, who tried to save me.
Save me from myself.
So once again, thank you everyone. It’s been a pleasure to have been rescued from what is within. It’s scary to think of the things that we can do to ourselves.
It’s almost impossible to comprehend just what our own minds can put us through, and how there is little way out without outside help.
Thank you everybody.
“Happiness can only exist in acceptance.” – George Orwell.
“Sometimes it helps to admit it to yourself.” – Sam.
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