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From The Lost Road to Hope
Chapter 27: Connections
Tara continues her bizarre tirade, “I was a crack head, since I was
twelve, whoring my way through my teens; it was the only way to feed my habit. My mom died when I was only a child, she was mega whore I knew that even then. I am amazed to this day; I wasn’t born with AIDs or worse as much as she fucked around. Her drug of choice was heroin, I remember playing in that shit
hole of an apartment of ours, while she lay motionless on the bed, the needle still sticking out of her emaciated arm.”
“She was always so thin I am surprised the damn thing didn’t go right through. A child shouldn’t see that, be forced to remember that. Most barely remember anything from that age, not me; I was fortunate enough to have those images burned deep into my psyche. I didn’t have warm and fuzzies about school plays, Christmas mornings, and all that shit. My mental scrapbook contains images of my bitch of a mother, strung out; naked, lying on her bed, surrounded by her own filth. Do you know how long it took me to realize that a girl smelling like urine wasn’t the norm, that a house shouldn’t reek of shit and vomit every day?”
She is shaking, barely able to stand on her own. There is no stopping her, it is all just flooding out with nothing to dam it.
'Well for me that was the norm, that was what I woke up to and went to bed to every fucking day and night,” her confession continues “So what do I do, do I break that vile cycle, fuck no, I amp it up a couple of notches! I hated my mother, and the life of squalor and horror she forced us to exist in. I was there the day she choked on her own puke and died, but I didn’t see it, her on the bathroom floor sprawled out laying in the shit that covered the tile floor. I didn’t know at the time, no one did, until the stink got so bad one of my crack head neighbors couldn’t stand it anymore and came over. They found me playing with my ratty toys, half starved, and waiting for mommy to come out of the bathroom. When the police finally got there and found her, the way she was, they got sick too. I never saw the body, but I am sure it was a little slice of hell to see.”
She begins to pace for a moment. Her shaking is getting worse; she dodges Matt every time he tries to approach her. Her eyes are vacant; she is lost in memory, spewing each and every detail of her past.
“They took me away and I lived either in foster care or on the street until I was nineteen. I lived for crack; it let me forget all the shit in my life, the only thing that kept me going, gave my fucking existence any worth. I fucked so many guys I lost count, sucked so many filthy, stinkin’ cocks, I made my mom look like a nun,” she slams her hand on the counter, “and still I never caught anything, not one STD, ironic isn’t it, fucking ironic. Then I got pregnant with her. Who the hell knows who the father was? And somewhere in my crack addled brain, I figured, I could keep her, raise her, change the past, and break the cycle. Oh, I finally did get clean; I was clean the whole time I carried her.”
She slams down into a chair, still trembling; nothing is going to stop her, who knows how long she has kept all of this to herself, how deeply it tormented her while it was there. I know some of it. But there are large chunks missing, much of what she gave to me made very little sense. When the flashes came they were a jumble of emotions that wrapped around my heart like a vice and squeezed continually. We all thought she was the epitome of prim and proper.
Guess Matt is getting an education now.
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