Cracked and Broken is about a boy growing up in a broken home and how that will effect the rest of his life.
"Therodore?', "Here" "Thomas?" , "what?" "Are you present in class?" "Yes". My 5th grade teacher always took attendance this way, The reason? I was always locked inside my own mind looking and reliving all of the broken parts of me and my life. All the way up to October 3, 1986. I was 11 years old, when my slut of a mother left my father for his older brother. That day started differently than our usual routine. First of all I woke up to the sound of shattering glass and muffled screams, I crawled out of my room to find my mother on the floor bleeding and crying. My father was nowhere in sight. She had 3 gashes, one on her forehead one on her arm from trying to protect her skull and the last one was on her side. She screamed for me to call 911, I did. Suprisingly my little sister, Annebell nevercame down she was either sleeping or ignoring the encounter completely. After my father displayed rage against my mother she left him, me and Annebell.
After a few months my father discovered the effects of a few shots of Jack Daniel's and a handful of painkillers could make him forget his painful prediciment. My father became an unshaven, addict offering no love nor comfort to me or Annebell. Once we realized that my mother was gone and daddy dearest was a fucking physco me and Annebell created a routine to live by. this routine consisted of me getting up at 6 am to wash dishes, do laundry and make breakfast for everyone. At 7 am I would, with much effort try to wake my father up and out of his drunken stupor, wake up Annebell. After everyone eats I take dishes while Annebell gets ready for school. For years I held a steadfast grudge against my father for hurting my mother and making her leave, and for completly demolishing my once happy and care-free childhood. I remeber in the months after my mother left I became colder and more withdrawn, I lost all connections to normal life.
One day I was completely slipping into the past when I subconsicously felt the need to relieve the hurt i felt inside, I couldn't take bottling it up anymore. I imploded. I choose to drag a straight blade across my left forearm until the blood ran from the cut to my fingertips. I breathed deep as I watched the blood collect by the bathroom sink drain, No more would I bottle my hurt. Now I found an outlet to let out all of my pain.