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952 I Make This Look Easy

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About MericCotton

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  1. I look up ... I look down all I see is the shroud of liquid night impenetrable suffocating the pills don’t help anymore the talks don’t help anymore I have to move get away from this spot this place of torment and shadow I hear the laughter of life just beyond my reach and my tears hit the floor without sound
  2. MericCotton


    thank you
  3. it is impossible to fathom beyond comprehension to be ignored dropped ridiculed by those who are supposed to be guardians administrators moderators of all places this was the last one i ever expected the knife so firmly placed between my shoulder blades do not ask why i weep for there are no more tears with the ultimate betrayal comes the ultimate truth life will never be worth living if you still believe in friends or others who "care" to survive you must first release the idea that anything will ever be better worthwhile or that honesty still exists
  4. MericCotton

    my story

    I'm glad you enjoyed (?) it. Thanks for writing.
  5. MericCotton

    my story

    and there is the scary part.
  6. MericCotton

    my story

    It is a "personal experience" story - but only the first part - the "adult moment" is mental only - one I hate to say I've thought about a time or three... Thank you for reading!
  7. MericCotton

    my story

    Yeah... Thanks for reading.
  8. MericCotton

    my story

    That would be nice, if it were the case.
  9. MericCotton

    To a Friend

    A friend in truth.
  10. MericCotton

    A Cry for Help

    "too accustomed to being ok ... but practically non-functional" yeah - I know that place. You've described it well. It connects. Very nicely done..
  11. short story - what would you do? Trigger warning - deals with results of sexual childhood abuse.
  12. MericCotton

    my story

    It wasn’t intended. Well, maybe it was. And maybe it was more gruesome than it needed to be … but I snapped. I still don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I think I can cover the why … I was nine. I remember that part well. Just after Christmas – my older brother and his friends were messing around with his new drum set. I came down stairs and said something like “you jerks sure make a lot of noise” … they charged. Next thing I knew I was flat on my back, brother sitting over my stomach as he punched at my arms. Not hard enough to bruise – he wasn’t that stupid I guess. But hard enough to hurt. Anyway, at one point his best friend leaned over and whispered something to him. He got this weird luck and said “I dunno man”. His friend whispered again and my brother shrugged. Then he got off me. I didn’t have a chance to get away. Suddenly my shoes were gone, my socks. Shirt. But when he started on my belt I knew I was in trouble. This is where the memory gets a little foggy. I recall trying to roll out of their grasp, screaming, crying, promising anything to my brother if they’d just stop. But they didn’t stop. They grabbed me, threw me on my stomach onto my dad’s favorite chair with my feet almost on the floor. Then nothing. I remember pain. Horrendous pain. Tears. That's all. Next I knew I was in my room curled up on my bed. It took me forever to be able to move. Then Dad and Mom came home. I got dressed as fast as I could manage. Dad always said “Mind your brother when we’re gone. If he does something wrong, just tell us about it when we get home – but be obedient while we’re away.” I ran, flew, fell down the stairs to stand in front of him. I remember the tears. I remember him looking at me, the displeasure in his eyes… I started to tell him, but all I got out was “Bill and his friends…” before Dad back-handed me – practically knocked me to the floor. He was yelling “How many times do you have to be told not to tattle on your brother? Get to your room. I can’t stand looking at you.” That was 25 years ago. Then in mid-January this year Dad died. After the funeral we were at the house, going through things – Mom died a couple years ago. Anyway my brother shoved me aside to get at some papers and I pushed him back. He said that I’d better watch it if I knew what was good for me. I turned, looked him in the eye, and said “Screw you”. He grabbed at me. “Screw me? I’ll show you screw me,” and ripped my shirt open. And I ran. Next thing I remember I was in Dad’s study, his revolver in my hand, and Bill lying dead on the floor, blood everywhere, and the revolver empty. That’s all I can tell you ‘cause that’s all that I know. Now I guess I have to wait for your judgement. Or your mercy.
  13. Thanks! It's good to be back, even if I'm not writing "full" chapters yet.
  14. “Boss, if you don’t sit still, I can’t get you ready.” Nelson struck at Enderson’s hand as the older man tried to mess with the tie in Nelson’s hands. “Then Let.Me.Have it,” Enderson replied, finally wresting the fabric from the driver. “I was tying these things before you were a spark in your father’s eyes.” He fought with the tie a few moments before his hands flew up in frustration. “These things must have been invented by women as torture for their men.” He looked up at his driver and bodyguard. “Don’t just stand there, Pike. Fix it.” “Yes sir,” the man replied as he stepped forward and began again to make a proper bow. He concentrated on his hands briefly until he had the bow tied and was adjusting it. “Might I ask why the formality tonight?” “I’m meeting my son tonight.” Enderson paused in thought. “That does sound a bit odd. And the thought that I’ll be convincing my eldest son to adopt my youngest son …” “Sounds like a typical Enderson Tate exchange to me,” Nelson quipped with a grin. Enderson glared at his driver/bodyguard, but his eyes gave away his humor. He checked in the mirror before him as Nelson finished the bow tie. “Thank you, Pike. Well done.” “Thank you sir.” Nelson bowed his head slightly before turning and walking out. “And now we start Phase Two,” the head of Tate Industries said to himself. He ran a hand through his thick greying hair then turned and rolled himself out of his room. Enderson was pouring his second glass of bourbon when the front door chime sounded. He put the glass down and turned his chair as Carlson opened the door and Dr. Kemp walked in. “Thank you, Carlson.” The doctor looked across the room. “Good evening, Mr. Tate. I have a package for you.” “Poor choice of words, Doctor,” came the reply. “Bring me my son.” Kemp carefully laid the infant in Enderson’s arms. At four months, the child was healthy and alert. The old man smiled as he looked at the child and his face took on the appearance of one very self-satisfied. “Remarkable,” was all he said before looking back to Dr. Kemp. “The mother has been taken care of?” “As you requested,” the doctor replied. “Good. Not a price I would typically want to pay, but under the circumstances, acceptable. That will be all.” “Yes sir.” “Enderson waited until the doctor had left before looking at the boy that lay on his lap. “Well, little one, welcome to your world. It will try to dominate you, crush you, but you are a Tate, and you shall overcome it. As I have done, you shall continue to do.” He smiled, silver glinting in his cold eyes. “The future awaits us, and we must be ready.” He glanced toward the front door as it opened and he heard Carlson greeting Michael and Byron. He glanced back to his new son and inhaled sharply. Did I see the spark in his eyes, so much like mine? Or was that a trick of the lighting? He didn’t have time to check anything as his older son walked in the room, looking more than a little apprehensive. “So … um … my brother?” was all Michael managed. “Brother to become son, hopefully,” Enderson answered. “Come on, Enderson won’t bite. Hold him.” Michael started to pick up the child then stopped short. “Enderson? You named him Enderson?” He took a step back and looked disbelieving at Enderson. His father arched a brow. “Is there a problem naming my son after myself?” Byron spoke up. “Well, sir, don’t you think we should name our son? Or Michael, at least?” “You want to name him Michael?” “Actually, Father, we were thinking, that if we adopt him, we might call him ‘Anderson Daniel Tate’. “Anderson. Not Enderson.” It was not a question. “That way we can call him Andy.” Byron replied, gushing. “Andy?” Enderson retorted in surprise. He paused for a breath then smiled. “Well, as your son you have that right.” The smile did not even approach his eyes. “If we adopt, Father,” Michael stated flatly. “That decision still hasn’t been made.” “I understand,” his father responded. He glanced around the room. “Carlson!” The child in his lap woke with a start and began to cry, bringing a frown to the elder Tate’s lips. “I had forgotten how easily babies can be startled.” To his son’s surprise, he lifted the child to his shoulder, patted his back lightly, and whispered gently to him until the butler stepped in the room. “Yes, Mr. Tate?” “Ask the nurse to come get young Ender… excuse me, Anderson.” Carlson barely lofted a brow. “Right away, sir.” Enderson turned to his son and son-in-law. “You will stay for dinner. I will hear what else is going on in your lives.” He stopped briefly. “Before we discuss why you think there’s still a question in your adopting your brother.” Michael and Byron passed knowing looks before the younger Tate answered. “Of course, Father.”
  15. Thanks. Hope Enderson doesn't get any harder to read ....
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