A Cry For Help

• Bronte Matthews, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2014

Dear Father,
Mother needs help. She has been on a continuous downward spiral since the day you left for War. For the first few months she wasn’t so bad, but as time progressed she has been losing control. I’m all out of options; I don’t know what to do. Cameron, with his simple minded-ways is oblivious to the fact that she’s suffering. He believes it’s her own fault and takes his frustrations out on her by hitting her furiously and cursing. It scares me. Her luminous blue eyes have become sunken, her hair an un-kempt, greasy matt, her skin has become wrinkled and pale, like a corpse. There is no life in her anymore. Her warm smile has become nothing more than a memory. She speaks with a plaintive, melancholic tone. She does not clean, nor cook, work, nor bathe. Sitting on her unmade bed in her eerie, cold bedroom, she looks endlessly at the fading closed curtains. She is in her own distant world. The burning cigarette sits forever in her fingertips, turning them a yellow shade of brown. The smoky air erodes her lungs. She sees imaginary people, and has conversations with them. She cannot understand the difference between what is real and what is in her mind. She refuses medication; she doesn’t believe she needs it. The doctor diagnosed her schizophrenic and she accused him of lying. Months have passed since she experienced the sun rays on her pasty skin. It seems as though my own mother is a distant roommate than anything else. I miss having a family; sitting at the dinner table enjoying the comfort of a Sunday Roast. Playing card games on the lounge room floor, you were a sneaky cheater and mother would always catch you out. I miss playing cricket in the backyard under the blistering sun. Those were the days, father. We need you back. Mother needs you back. Please, come home to us.