In the beginning, I never knew it would lead me here of all places. How could I know that first step I took would lead me into this dark tunnel. Will I ever find the light?
How had all this begin? Let me remember and find that detail I missed to show that this isn't real, to show that my mother isn't dead.

Three months ago I was the perfect student, the perfect daughter my parents could brag about. With one word from their mouths I would obey without a single thought; no tight clothing, no shorts or skirts above the knees and absolutely, under no conditions: NO BOYFRIEND. My 'perfectness', as my parents called it, led me to having no friends. I was always too busy with one project or another I didn't have time to socialize. If you told me then, that I caused my mother's death, I would've walked away without gracing you with an answer.

Every Sunday, I went to the library to work on different school assignments, or just to read. December 23 was no different. That Sunday, I was working on a school assignment;write a 500 word essay on a monumental experience. I wrote about when I got braces. In thirty minutes I wrote the "perfect" essay. Since I was done half-an-hour early, I planned on reading up on the next subject in history; the Spanish Inquisition, until my father came. As I opened the book, I suddenly became restless and jumped up. I heard someone laugh.

"Hey, you got ants in your pants?"

I turned to see a man, but he wasn't quite a man yet. He was still obviously older than my fifteen years.

"What, cat's got you tongue too?" he laughed, walking over to where I stood. I remember seeing his shoulder length, jet black hair swaying in the wind, his sharp nose pointed upwards as he laughed. I saw his eyes twinkle as he looked me over, and his hand, there was a cigarette! I was startled by his lax appearance and his friendly manner. He seemed so lay back!

"Excuse me, who are you even?" I rudely asked trying to cover up my staring of him.

"Feisty," he exclaimed smiling, "I like that, I'm Brock."

"Brock, interesting name," I commented, "I'm-"

"Monica, what are you doing dawdling? We have to go!" I heard my father yell.

"I'm sorry, I have to go," I regretfully said, turning to Brock.

Walking away, Brock turned, "See ya' Monica, maybe next week?"

After I stumble into my father's car, I barely heard my father's lecture about how Brock was a bad influence and he didn't want me to be around him. I was so intrigued by Brock and his freedom.
I barely noticed the week pass. I was anxious for Sunday to come, to see Brock again. For two months I hung out with him. First only on Sundays, at the library, then almost every day. We went to a lot of parties and I started drinking. I was free.

"Monica," my mom said as she and my dad sat me down.

My dad continued, "We know you've been drinking and skipping classes too! I told you that boy was no good."

"Brock freed me from your control. I am a separate person than you with my own thoughts," I yelled standing up, "You're only worried that I'm not you puppet anymore!"

"Sweetie," my mom said, "We only want whats best-"

"You've been repressing me my whole life. How can that be whats best for me!"

"Monica," my dad said.

"Don't Monica me, I've had enough, I'm leaving. I walked out the door, but not before I saw my my parents look of surprise, and I saw I hurt them. Brock didn't answer his phone and I was so confused and angry. I just wanted it all to go away. "Okay," I remember thinking, "I can buy a few drinks at this party I heard about. I drank until I had no more money, but I could still feel. "Money, I had more money in my room. Just sneak in and sneak out." I don't remember how I got home alive. All
I remember is standing in the driveway and I saw Brock's car. "Brock," I screamed, "Brock!"

"Monica," I heard my mom call from the house, "Monica?" I still hear her footsteps as she raced down the stairs, but then there was the screech of tires, me almost getting hit by Brock's car, the front door opening. Then I saw my mother running out, I'd just realized I'd been screaming.

"Mother!" I screamed, seeing her get hit by Brock's car. I ran to her. She was bleeding. I couldn't think. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the waiting room with my father.

Mother held onto life for a few days, she died three days ago. If only I wasn't drunk, I would've called 911 earlier. I want to stop the sadness, but no, never again will I have alcohol. Never again.
Father and I only have each other now. Together we will get through this. I feel my mother's spirit, the strength she left for me to take. I know she forgives me, I know she will always be a part of me.