My VerityMature

Life. Love. Sex. Drugs. Alcohol. Just a few of the things in life that manage to control us to an extent where we aren't able to gain access of self control. Winter Kinglsey find's that often in his life. His story is dramatic, strange and a little bit touching.

                I can’t even begin to explain how fucked up life is. How fucked up everything is. Moments like these make me wish that wishes would actually come true. I would lose count of how many things in my life were perfect, but you could just count that as another failure. I’ve lost count of the days where I’ve just wanted to crawl back into my mum’s stomach and stay there; I’d stay warm and peaceful, entirely oblivious to everything in the outside world. I wouldn’t be affected. I couldn’t be touched. I couldn’t be hurt. And nothing I did or said would upset anyone. And I just got to sit there, blissfully unaware.

            But of course everyone knows that you can’t ask for everything. It’s like when you’re born, you’ve been given a limited number of asks. And you only find out that you even had them once you’ve used them all up. Then what are you supposed to do? Bad things start to happen frequently and you can’t ask them to go away.

            I’m not a religious person, but recently I’ve been beginning to question myself further than I’ve ever have before. What I believe in. What I don’t. What’s right and what’s wrong. Nothing’s been fitting into place, and it’s like someone is expecting me to do the right thing, and the only thing I can do is disappoint them. Which sucks because the more I try, the more I tend to feel pressured, and the more I ruin everything.

            You probably think I’m a complete tosser. And I wouldn’t exactly say that you’re wrong. I can admit to my mistakes, but I can’t admit to my scars. They’re not healed yet. And I don’t know when they will be, if they ever will.

            If I can be honest with you, the one thing I’m sick of hearing, is “Life’s too short, live it to the maximum every day, and enjoy it like there’s no tomorrow.” You might want to re-evaluate that next time you’re feeling wild and free, because doing everything you’ve ever wanted to do, can really come back and kick you in the teeth, and particularly when you’ve run out of asks.

            Yes life can seem short. More often when you really think about it, but if you put into perspective, and you really look at what they mean by that, you’ll start to come up with some theory’s that would really give them a run for their money.

            First off, what do they even mean by “Life’s too short.”? How the hell do they know how long you’re going to live for? You could die when you’re in your ninety’s. Last time I checked ninety wasn’t a very short number, and I don’t see that changing any time soon.

Secondly, some people have died at birth, and if you really think about it, that innocent baby never had the chance to experience anything of the outside world except the gloomy hospital room in which they entered and left the planet. And here you’ve got some hipster bitch telling you to go out and get pissed every night when there are poor babies, and families that are grieving over a life that they never had the chance to be a part of, how’s that for life’s short?

Thirdly, there are way too many people in this world that have more to lose than those who have nothing to gain. And you think about how powerful words alone can be, and how drastically they can affect someone, how badly do you want to be responsible for this person’s misfortunes? Unless you want it badly, you’ve really got to think ahead.

I don’t want to bore you with my life theory’s, it’s just that everything happening has given me so much more to think about. I’ve never taken life at this angle so seriously, and never have been as shocked as to the things that I’ve thought about. You surely start to appreciate certain things a lot more, and then there are other things that you’ve got a whole new aspect on.

My name is Winter Kingsley. I know it’s a weird name. My parents were those deep, emotional, musical kinds of people who would always try to look into meanings of things. They called me winter because they loved the winter time in the UK. How everything was so grey, and cold and artistic. I’ve never really understood it myself, but I guess anything’s better than my middle name. Fredrick. I think I would have pitched myself off of a bridge if I’d have to continue my life with that name.

I’ve lived in England my entire life. I can’t remember anywhere that we used to live very well, we moved so much. Dad had a travelling job and mum always told me that it was the best thing for us. So I never had the chance to make friends very well, even worse my parents aren’t particularly good with younger children, so I’ve never had any brothers or sisters to annoy, or even just to have someone else do something wrong in the house, being an only child meant that I was the only thing my parents worried about. I didn’t get to watch them fuss over someone else every day.

So I’m named after a season and I live in England with my travelling parents. I guess that’s about as much as you need to know at this stage. It’s pretty much been my life style for sixteen years.

I think about that. Sixteen years. It seems like such a long time to me because the only recollection I’ve ever had is everything I can remember in my entire life. Which is a lot, but then my parents are at least three times my age, and I don’t know what that feels like, you sort of start to realize why parents are always complaining about their age.

I know this is all so deep and heartfelt, but, I don’t really want to tell you why at this stage. One, I don’t know you. Two, it’s personal. Three, you don’t know enough about me to understand completely. Which is kind of annoying for you, because this means you’re going to have to endure me telling you about my life in the past few months, but stay with me, it’s not all so boring.


To start off, let’s just forget what I’ve said about my family. How my mum told us that moving with dad’s job was a good thing, and how they were meshed together when it came to worrying about me, and being mutually artistic and meaningful, because all of that would have made sense before my dad decided to fuck everything up.

In my opinion, I don’t understand why the men can’t just come to get the women pregnant and then piss off before they decide to go and fuck our lives up, no love attached. The worst part is looking at their face after you find out what happened, how they long for forgiveness and don’t see their problems nearly as negligent as what they actually are. He’s so arrogant, and frustrating. Especially the fact that he had enough balls to actually tell my mother what he had done. I know there wouldn’t really be any other way any more respectful than this, but my loathing for him at the moment seems to abandon sympathy to a point where anything he does doesn’t deserve any kind of pity at all. And he shouldn’t get a say in any of it.

            To him, sleeping with another woman after eighteen years of marriage is something that could be brushed under the carpet; it’s such a disgusting way to repay my mum, after everything she did for him over the years. Maybe I’m over reacting a little; actually I seemed to be taking it more seriously than mum. She must’ve been in shock or something because she hadn’t mentioned it in a few days. Dad had gone to stay at a friend’s house. Good riddance if you ask me, but she seemed so calm, I ended up asking her.

            “Mum?” I asked her, sitting down at the table as she was putting away some dry dishes.

            “Yes sweetie?” She smiled. It sort of felt wrong to ask her, seeing her smile and then to bring up her cheating husband, but anymore denial could go worse.

            “What are you going to do about Dad?” I kinda wish I didn’t say that, because her smile faltered. She leant against the counter with folded arms.

            “I,” Her lips tightened. “I don’t know.”

            “But he cheated on you! You can’t want to take him back!”

            “I know that this is hard for you to get your head around, and I understand that you’re very angry with him, but he is still and always will be your father, and he is still my husband, and I still love him, very much.”

            “Areyouangry with him?” I said. Rejection of the truth must have been congesting inside of her because she struggled to find the right words.

            “Well, I mean, of course I’m angry at him, I’m infuriated!” She didn’t sound very angry.

            “You can’t forgive him mum, not after what he’s done.”

            “You don’t understand, Winter. I can’t just take of my wedding ring and give back to him and leave it at that.”

            “Why the hell not? He had sex with another woman, mum, and you think taking off your wedding ring is bad?”

            “Divorce isn’t that easy.” She sounded firm; she wasn’t going to give in. “But I know I’m going to have to do something.” I was going to continue talking to her, but her eyelids drooped down onto her lap, I think enough was said to really get her thinking about it. I’m not very good with crying, especially if it’s my own family. I don’t really know what to do, so I got up and walked into my room. As I closed the door, I could hear her sobbing. In a way I felt guilty, but really if she was going to take action, it ought to be now.

            The mechanics in the door handle clicked in place as I shut the door. My bed was loosely made; I had thrown the family quilt over it earlier this morning so that the coloured squares were flat and looking up to the ceiling. At the end of my bed were my folded clean clothes. I threw them onto my desk and jumped onto my bed, my chin resting on my folded arms.

            I looked down at the quilt and my eyes landed on one that read “KINGSLEY’S ‘98.” and underneath it had my parent’s and my initials: B. K, C. K and W. K. Wow, I still have something that has proof of a happy family. Going and staying at Aunty Maggie’s lake house when I was about, four, doing the cliché sleeping in a tent, the American campfire thing, and making quilts. Which may have been amazing at the time, but really, it’s just a blanket that reminds us of the times before my father was a complete ass hole. I shouldn’t be so hard about him, but I can’t help it. I really hate him.

            My eyes scanned the bed looking at the different patches that we made. Some I couldn’t recognize, some I couldn’t read, and some that were poorly made. But in all, I guess it was actually quite beautiful. None of the colours really clashed or made it look messy. It was nice.

            And now I’m thinking happily about my family. Which was odd? If I’m going to support mum in doing what’s best for her, I should go against dad. I know, that sounds super cruel, but he’s never done anything amazing for me, except putting “and dad.” right after “Love mum” on birthday and Christmas cards. He would be off on work trying to sell whatever it was that he sold all day every day. I know it sounds a bit silly, but he’s one of the people that if I was away from for so long, I would forget what he looks like, and he’s my father.

            But he’s never been there for me, and I don’t think he ever will be. If he expects me to come and stay with him and his new girlfriend every weekend, he’s wrong. I really hope she doesn’t try to get involved in our lives, if he’s even with her at the moment. She’ll probably be really stupid and senseless, rely on alcohol and tell me how much I’ve grown within a week of seeing her. Men seem to fall for those kinds of women, most likely just for the sex. Then he’ll treat her like a child and only be nice to her when they’re both drunk. I think I might just stay out of this one.


            I didn’t realise until I opened my eyes that I had fallen asleep exactly where I was lying, looking at the quilt. My shoes were off and there was a thick blanket over me. Mum must have come in when I was asleep. The curtains were shut too, but I could see the midday light gleaming through them. Saturday was already halfway complete, so that indicated that today was going to be a lazy day. I listened to hear if there was anyone moving in the kitchen, I could hear cupboards opening and the kettle beginning to boil. Mum must’ve woken a little bit late too.

            I threw the blanket over the wooden posts at the end of my bed and stood up, rubbing my gluey eyes, which made no difference at all, and decided what I was going to wear. I looked in the mirror; my brown hair was messy and gross. Oh goodie, now I have to do something to it if I want to go anywhere. I scruffed it up and began to violently pat it down to make it reasonable to look at, and opened the door.

            “Morning,” I began. But I stopped in the doorway. My heart was pounding. Not like a nervous pound, and irritable pound, one that I shouldn’t have to feel. My father was standing in the kitchen with two cups next to the kettle.

            “Morning son,” He smiled. “Do you want some tea?” But before he could finish I walked straight into the bathroom and slammed the door as hard as I could. He didn’t say anything. What the fuck was he doing in my house? I know he lives here, but after what he’s done, he can’t just show up when we’re sleeping. What would mum think? Whatdoesmum think? She can’t have forgiven him yet, I certainly hope not. I pretended to go to the bathroom, so I flushed the toilet and turned on the sink so some water would come out, dried my hands and unlocked the door.

God, I’m going to have to talk to him. I don’t want to, where was mum? I swung the door open and took an immediate left to mums bedroom. She wasn’t there though. The curtains were open and the bed was made. I doubt she would have let him in, but then that’s breaking and entering, except with a key to the house. I hope she doesn’t know he’s here. She’ll be even madder when she comes home to see him. But that still means I don’t want to talk to him, maybe I can get into my room without talking to him.

I marched quickly down the hall and headed for my door, but he was still in the kitchen making tea. I tried to pick up the pace.



I didn’t say anything; I just stood in my doorway with my back to him.

“Winter, look at me.” He was trying to be sympathetic. Jerk.                                                  “No.” I snapped. Retaliating was personally slightly rewarding.

“I know you’re mad at me, but listen,”

            “You’re damn right I’m pissed off at you!”

            “Don’t swear.” He snapped. Already, I couldn’t see this ending well.

            “I’ll swear if I fucking want to, you ass hole.” I turned around. He was not amused. His lips were tightened and by look of it, he was trying to hide his clenched fists in folded arms.

            “All right then. You can listen to me.”

            “Why should I. You cheated on mum, and now you’re trying to act all ‘goodie-two-shoes’ to get on her good side again so you can act like none of this every happened.”

            “I didn’t cheat on her, Winter.” He wasn’t looking at me, what a terrible liar he was.

            “Then what do you call having sex with another woman?”

            “I didn’t sleep with her.”

            “Oh, okay then. Would you like to come and live here again?” He hesitated, lips still tight.

            “Don’t get smart. I’m trying my best to ask for forgiveness without getting on my hands and knees.”

            “Ask for your forgiveness?” See what I mean? Bad stuff happens and you can’t ask it to go away. In this case, I’m glad he doesn’t have any left. “You really think me and mum are going to forgive youthateasy, do you?”

            “This isn’t about you.”

            “I never said it was, Blake.” His face writhed with different emotions, never in my entire life had I ever called him by his first name. Never have I ever sworn in front of him, and directly at him. Never has he begged me for forgiveness in a situation like this. I’m starting think he’s realising what he’s really done. And I hope it hit’s him hard. “You may be my biological father. But you’re not my dad.”

            “Winter you’re taking this a little seriously.”

            “And you never will be either. Call me what you wish, rude, insensitive or over-dramatic, but at least I can admit to that.” And I slammed the door in his face. I didn’t really know what to think at this point. I hadn’t spoken to him in at least a week, and then the first time I do, I yell at him and slam a door in his face. I don’t really know whether or not to call that good, but I guess it was rewarding. He knows how pissed off I am at him, and he knows that I’m not forgiving him. I bet he still thinks he’s got a chance with mum. But to be perfectly honest, I think there is a slight chance of forgiveness there. Mum’s a kind woman, but I’ve never seen her be put in a situation like this before, and it’s sad to say that I really don’t know her like this to truthfully tell you what I think will happen. I can only hope for whatIwant to happen, but I haven’t been married to the bastard for eighteen years have I?

            I could hear him opening the top cupboard and putting away one of the cups, and then sit down at the table. So he wasn’t going to leave any time soon then. I’ll just stay in here.

            The weird part about it was the fact that the man who ruined an important relationship that I should have in life, was sitting in the very next room. And it’s weird to think that I don’t care that he’s ruined that relationship. I’m sorry to anyone who loves their dad very much, because I could guarantee any father is better than mine, it’s just that I’ve lost the capability to feel any kind of affection towards this human. It was kinda scary, but numb.

            So, the past few hours I’ve been describing my feelings a lot about particular things to you, and if you’re going to get bored with that, I suggest you stop reading, and walk away, because it’s probably going to be like that for the rest.




The End

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