There are things I’ve done that others would deem regrettable. I’ve embezzled money for campaigns. Started a war that may never end. Gained power though threatening people with death if they didn’t comply with given orders. Killed with my own hands.
But none of those I regret. They’re not regrettable if there’s good reasoning behind such actions and/or such power is used sparingly. Don’t want to lose control when holding on with an iron fist.
There’s a time I’d like to return to, a time when my father was still alive. There’s so much I’d like to ask him, especially about my mother. Who she was, what she looked like. Could never get any kind of answer from my Gran; she claims she knew of her, but nothing more, never met her even.
If I knew then what I now know, I’d ask my father why it took me acquiring my birth certificate to find my mother died while giving birth to me. I’d ask why he couldn’t tell me my mother was 14 years young when she was pregnant. Was he embarrassed of telling his only child the pedophiliac fantasies of my mother and other young girls satisfying his then 28-year-old urges, or was he too high to even remember to tell me such things?
I regret not getting to meet or know my mother.
I regret not asking my Gran for the truth, even to the point of aggravation. I wasn’t aware I was capable of such thing until later in life.
I regret nor finding my mother’s family and asking them about her, regardless of whether or not they wanted to get to know me.
I regret not having a functional family.
It was an overdose that took my father’s life; he’d picked me up from school, letting 15-year-old me drive home, for he was too high to do so. He was not only a drug dealer, but he was a consumer of his product, product he got from another, not always reliable source.
As we arrived home, and I opened the driver’s side door, cops came from everywhere, surrounding the car. They were, of course, looking for my father. My hands were up, but my father’s were not.
He was slumped over in his seat, foaming at the mouth. The drugs got him before the police did.
Yet, my biggest regret was not killing him myself. He owed me much more than what he gave me. He was a pedophile, but he never touched me. He was a drug-dealing junkie, but he pushed me to get my education and made sure I had the best.
But I would have been better off without him in my life. I’ve survived without my mother…
This is a work of fiction. The story is not real, and is actually an analysis of an original character in development for a work of fiction in progress.
Originally from a new Tumblr account I opened and posted this on, for some reason. I guess it would bring more readers/followers, but much of my audience is either here or on my main Tumblr. It’s all good, though…