The Raven: A Short Story

I clutched the nearly full bottle in my hand, the gleaming red label inviting me to guzzle the entire portion. Should I drink it or not? There really wasn’t a point in living, there never really was. I remember when I was younger my dad telling me, after having a shot or two, to never get carried away with vodka.
My name’s Raven. My parents got a divorce when I was seven, and my mom lost almost everything. She was broke from being a stay at home mom my entire life, relying on my dad, Jim, for financial security. We moved to a one bedroom apartment, and she started up her business. Although we didn’t have much, we were happy since we had eachother. Never mind that every other weekend the court ordered me to visit Jim’s luxurious apartment in
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My mom earned enough to buy a townhouse near a decent middle school. I no longer visited Jim, I simply refused to get in his car, no matter how many times he called the police. I studied well, and earned straight A’s. I made new friends, and best of all, I discovered my love for photography. I created an instagram account that had eleven thousand followers. I was happy. Then came the tragedy that ruined me.
My beloved mother was killed in a car accident on December 21, 2011. She was driving home after buying me a new camera for Christmas, when a drunk driver hit the side left side of her car. She was killed instantly, but due to the impact, her car rolled three lanes over. My happiness faded away, and all was left was a confused girl with too many unsolved issues. Jim was immediately contacted. For some insane reason, somebody is required to be your caregiver if they’re your biological
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How has this come to be? How does one’s life go so terribly wrong, that they’d rather not exist? I’m going to do it. There never really was a point in life after Mom was ripped away from me. Now I can be with her. First, I had to leave a note for Jim. Isn’t that what people do? Leave a note? I think he’ll be surprised when he finds me. I remembered he left some leftover red paint in my bathroom from when he painted the walls his favorite color. I walked into my bedroom, his office, whatever it is, and dipped my fingers in the can and wrote “am I good enough now?” in large drippy letters on his perfect white wall. I walked back to the bathroom to stare at myself one last time. My waist length wavy blonde hair was disheveled from the beating. Smeared around my bright hazel colored eyes was mascara smudged by my endless waterfall of tears. It streaked all the way down to my chin onto my cream colored sweater. I wore sleeves all year long since they always cover up my wrists. Never mind that I lived in Florida. I had to hide the fresh cuts and

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