Description
I finish packing my last bag and start locking everything up. This will be the last time I see my apartment. The next time I sleep in my own bed will be a week from now, and I was already missing it. I shuffle myself down the steps toward the door when I catch a glance of my mother's portrait. I felt nothing. I barely knew her. She walked out on me before I could get a chance. My father says 'she couldn't take care of me like she wanted to', but deep down I knew she just didn't want me. She made a mistake. She messed up. So every time I see her picture, her frozen in time smile, I feel nothing. I feel nothing but anger. I feel nothing but regret. I regret keeping that five by eight picture encased in a second grade frame. I regret looking at her everyday like the time I spend looking at her face will bring back the time she robbed from me. But then realization settles in like the setting of the sun and I soon realized that she wasn't the only one that made a mistake. I made a mistake. The mistake was made when I put the picture out for others to see. Like I was showing her off, giving her the props that she clearly didn't deserve. Putting her on a pedal stool she didn't break her back to make. But it was a picture. It shouldn't affect me, not like this.
Prologue
