After completing the mind map for the class, I decided to write a short proof of concept on what essentially constitutes a novel story written in a short story length.

Think of this story as a proof of concept.

Draft:

Losing my mother at eleven was like having my world upended. The memories I have of her are hazy, like a watercolour painting that's slowly fading away. It's as if I'm trying to recall a dream, but the details are shrouded in mystery. It's a strange feeling, missing her, because I've grown accustomed to her absence, but the ache remains. Sometimes I find myself wondering if it's her I miss, or the sense of security and love that came with having her in my life.

I vividly remember the day she died. I was walking home from school, lost in thought, when Dad's urgent message flashed on my phone. I felt a jolt of fear and scrambled to get home as fast as I could. I ran past rows of houses, their windows like empty eyes staring back at me. The streets seemed to stretch on forever until I finally turned into our driveway, my heart racing, my breath coming in short gasps.

I knew immediately from his expression that something bad had happened, the same look he had when he told me our dog had passed away. Grandma was there too, wiping the tears from her eyes, her usual warm and comforting presence now replaced with a sombre sadness. I think I asked where Mum was, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and uncertainty, and it was then that I knew. Before they could tell me, I knew. I could see from the way they looked at me, their eyes filled with pity and sorrow. I don't remember crying that night; it's as if my body went into shock, numb to the pain that would soon hit me like a ton of bricks. In a strange way, I was kind of expecting it. She didn't look well that morning, her pale skin and tired eyes a clear sign that something was wrong. I told her to stay home, to go to the doctors, but she just smiled, assured me it was a cold, and drove to work, leaving me with a sense of unease that lingered all day. I can't even remember if I told her I loved her that day, a regret that would haunt me for years to come.

After that day, things began changing. With Dad. With me. We were growing distant, like two strangers living in the same house. I think the last time I ever felt close to him at that point was at the funeral, where he put his arm around me and told me he loved me, his words struggling to comfort me through my tears. He told me that things would be okay, but deep down, I knew they wouldn't be. And then early the next day, he left me with my grandma, and I didn't see him again until we picked him up from jail, the smell of booze and shame hanging over him like a cloud. He was drowning in liquor, and he took me with him, pulling me down into the darkness that had consumed him.

The first drink I had is etched in my memory like a scar. It was a regretful sip of beer that tasted like the putrid smell of our trash bin on a hot summer morning. The bitter flavour instantly reminded me of the punishments I received from my mother when I cursed - a soapy mouthwash that stung my tongue. I often regretted my mistakes, wondering why my mother didn't use beer as a deterrent instead. But I didn't let that experience deter me.

A few months later, after a disastrous day at school, I decided to take a chance and drink a whole bottle. As I stood up, the room began to spin, and I felt a strange, unrelenting dizziness. It wasn't the kind you get from playing dizzy games with friends; it was a disorienting, uncontrollable feeling that left me reeling.

I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, my mouth dry and my body aching all over. I vowed never to touch a drink again, but it was a promise I couldn't keep. A month later, I found myself sneaking into a store and snatching a cheap bottle of wine off the shelf. I was caught red-handed by a cop, but instead of hauling me off to jail, he let me off with a warning. If only he had done his job properly, maybe the next two years wouldn't have been a never-ending nightmare. But he didn't, and I slipped further and further into the darkness.

From one day to the next, I became more and more like my father - a carbon copy of his worst habits. We drank like it was our job, living off my grandma's goodwill and generosity. We weren't sipping on a cold beer on a hot summer day; we were guzzling down a bottle of whiskey, vodka, or tequila like it was going out of style. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. My memories of my mother and our happy times together started to fade away like a Polaroid left in the sun. I stopped going to school, not because I meant to, but because I just started forgetting to show up. It was like I was on one long, never-ending holiday from reality.

Thinking back, that was probably the closest I had ever been with my dad. We would sit on the couch day and night watching TV as we drank. I'd lie on him, he'd give me a hug, tell me he loved me, and then I would wake up the next morning alone and he would be gone somewhere probably getting more to drink. It took two years for my grandma to lose it and finally threaten to kick us out. The last straw came after she found me late one morning lying on the floor choking on my puke. I got sent to rehab, and after I came back out, Dad was on the mend. I think what happened to me woke him up. I think he knew that in his state he was a bad influence on me.

After I recovered, I never could look at alcohol again without wanting to vomit. I went back to school. Dad went back to work, and Grandma let us stay until my father got back on his feet. I lost a lot of friends during that dark two-year period of my life, but it didn't feel that bad; I'd gained a new one in my father. Without alcohol in his system, I had worried that the relationship we had formed would go away. But I could tell from the moment I came home that things would be different, but not in a bad way. The relationship we shared while drinking was one closer to two drinking buddies than father and daughter. The relationship we had after going sober was what I had wanted all along. But I knew deep down I wouldn't be enough for my father. We had a father-daughter relationship; he was missing the type of relationship he had with my mother. Something more intimate, something mature. Five years on from my mother's passing, he got that relationship; I only wish it weren't with her.

He didn't have to tell me. I already knew he was seeing someone. It hadn't taken me long to notice. He had become so much happier. There was a pep in his step and he smiled more often. I was happy for him. Before I met her, he would tell me about her. She was an accountant. A smart girl. He said she was funny, pretty, and keen to meet me. He told me he was worried. Some women don't like a man with kids. Ones that weren't theirs anyway. But it didn't seem to matter to her; in fact, strangely, she seemed very keen to meet me, and I was growing optimistic about meeting her. Dad set it up about a week after he told me about her. I wanted to go out to a restaurant or a café. It would give us an excuse to go out or something. But Dad told me he wanted to do it at home. We were going to order pizza from our favourite place. Pizza was our meal. We had a bad day; we got a pizza. Had something to celebrate; we got a pizza. Bored and wanting something good to eat, we got a pizza. Pizza was one of the few things from our darker days that I still enjoyed.

We were sitting on the couch watching television when the doorbell rang. Dad got up to answer it; I was oddly too anxious to get up. I sat and waited as he welcomed her inside. I felt a build-up of sickness and nausea build up in my body before she entered the living room. Those feelings didn't subside when I greeted her.

They only intensified, those warning bells in my mind. It was her smile, a saccharine curve of the lips that didn't quite reach her eyes. You know when you can tell someone is faking it, like a child caught in a lie, and that's exactly what it was like. There was a falseness about everything about her, a sense of artificiality that hung in the air like cheap perfume.

She dressed well, superficially at least. Every item of clothing looked expensive, but upon closer inspection, the brands were all knock-offs, cheap imitations of luxury labels. Her hair didn't look real, more like a synthetic wig, stiff and lifeless. And her face was a canvas of cosmetic corrections, a kaleidoscope of plastic surgery and makeup that left little of her natural appearance visible. It was like gazing at a wax figure, a manufactured approximation of human features.

I shook her hand, expecting a brief, polite greeting, but instead, she yanked me into a suffocating hug. The grip was unyielding, her arms wrapped around me like a vice, radiating an overwhelming stench that hinted at days, possibly weeks, without a shower. The pungent smell wafted up, making my eyes water. I think my father caught the distress flashing across my face because he shot me a stern warning glance, his eyes saying, "Be nice."

The rest of the night unfolded like a cautionary tale, riddled with awkward silences and stilted conversations that struggled to find oxygen. When we sat down to eat, she proved to be a finicky eater, scrupulously picking off the pineapple from our Hawaiian pizza, as if it were contaminated. Later, when we settled in to watch a movie, she claimed the spot that had once been my sanctuary – my dad's lap – a place where I had found solace during the darkest moments of my childhood, when the world seemed to be crumbling around me.

I will admit that part of the night's problems were my fault. I was very forward with my disliking of her, but I thought that it was just because this would be an uncomfortable first meeting. I figured she would go home and by the next time I saw her, things would be better. But you see, she never went home. She stayed all night in my dad's room and I heard all of it. She was not a quiet woman. Although I had no reason to believe at the time that she was being so loud on purpose.

I met her in the kitchen before school, the morning light casting an unforgiving glow on her stripped-back appearance. Gone were the trappings of glamour - the makeup, wig, and designer attire that had dazzled me just hours before. Instead, she wore my dad's worn shirt, its faded buttons and threadbare elbows a far cry from her usual chic. The contrast was jarring, like a splash of cold water on a winter's morning. But it was her demeanour that truly unsettled me. The warm, welcoming façade had vanished, replaced by a distant chilliness that made my skin prickle. Her tone was curt, her words clipped as she asked when I was leaving for school, her eyes already dismissing me as she turned back to the coffee brewer, the hiss of steam filling the silence between us. She made eggs on toast for my dad and herself and didn't leave even an egg in the fridge for me. I went to school on an empty stomach and when I told my best friend Molly about her, she agreed that the woman was a bitch.

When I returned home from school, she was already moving in. I saw her clothes in my dad's drawers. Make up and perfumes in the bathroom, and she had bought a new rug to sit under the coffee table. I tried to talk to Dad about it, but he was completely oblivious to most of the changes and what it meant for us. He was completely in love with her, oblivious to all the red flags and seemingly disregarded me and everything I said. For the first time since I quit drinking, I actually missed those darker days; at least then we had each other.

Grandma noticed the change almost as quickly as I did. After her somewhat pleasant first introduction, Dad's girlfriend became equally cold to Grandma, and suddenly we both felt like we were being pushed out of our own home by this woman. We stayed together as a strange, somewhat hostile family for six months. In that time, she got closer and closer to Dad, and we drifted further and further apart. It wasn't until their six-month anniversary that I realised I hadn't even learned her name. I had just been calling her Dad's girlfriend and he had been calling her nothing but pet names.

The final straw came on the night of Dad's birthday. Dad, his girlfriend and I were sitting in a restaurant waiting for Grandma. We waited an hour for her. So we called her, ordered our food and had cake. It wasn't until nearly two hours after we arrived that I got a call from grandma. Who had been waiting for us at another restaurant far out of town. She had had no mobile signal and had gotten angry and come out when none of us showed. As it turned out, Dad's girlfriend had sent her the wrong restaurant details. She claimed it was a mistake and Dad forgave her. Grandma and I knew better, and by the next day, Grandma kicked them both out of her home.

I went with them to a smaller unit Dad could hardly afford. I just couldn't give up on him that easily. We had been through so much together. I lasted maybe another month after the move. Their love-making had grown so loud, so physical that I couldn't bear it anymore. I asked Grandma if I could move back in, and when she agreed, I left my father and didn't see him again for the next six months. And frankly, I didn't want to. It felt like I had lost the relationship I had with my father, and it was all her fault.

Living with Grandma was a unique adventure, to say the least. The large generation gap between us often led to comedic misunderstandings and culture clashes. Many of the things I took for granted, like listening to loud music or wearing ripped jeans, were viewed as strange, even satanic, by her. In her eyes, these habits were a far cry from the traditional values she grew up with. Some of the things she considered normal, like watching reruns of The Price is Right or wearing floral print dresses, I saw as pure nonsense. I remember one incident when she tried to convince me that we couldn't leave the air conditioner on during a thunderstorm. She thought it would somehow attract lightning and burn the house down.

Her transformation into a devout person was a gradual one. I recall a time when her views were more open-minded, less bound by the constraints of religion. However, as the years passed, her fear of mortality intensified, and the promise of an afterlife became a comforting crutch. It was as if the ticking clock of her life had suddenly grown louder, and the idea of ceasing to exist became unbearable.

My decision to immerse myself in the punk rock scene was the catalyst for our explosive arguments. The sound of blaring guitars and rebellious lyrics was like a declaration of war to her traditional values. My new appearance, with its defiant shades of black and crimson red hair, was a visual manifestation of our differing beliefs. Our confrontations would often escalate into shouting matches, with her threatening to evict me from the house if I didn't conform. Yet, she never followed through on those threats, aware that I had nowhere else to turn. The alternative – returning to my mother's household or seeking out my father's uncertain welcome – was unthinkable to both of us.

Months later, my father arrived at our doorstep in a state of utter distress. His eyes were red, his face etched with pain, and his voice trembled as he spoke. We let him in, hoping that this would be the wake-up call he needed to realise he was on the brink of losing the two people who mattered most in his life. And initially, it seemed like it might just work. He poured his heart out, telling us about his girlfriend's infidelity - how he had caught her in bed with two men, and how she had callously told them to continue, forcing him to witness the betrayal. The memory of that night still brings tears to my eyes. I cried with my father, overwhelmed by his despair. It was what I did when he was upset - I felt his pain as if it were my own. For a fleeting moment, it seemed like we might regain the connection we had before she came into our lives. But our hope was short-lived.

Within an hour, Dad had returned to her, leaving my grandmother and me silently astonished. We had both been naive to think that this would be the turning point, the moment when he would finally break free from her toxic grasp. But a week later, he came back to us, beaming with joy, clutching a wedding ring, and we were left to confront the harsh reality of our foolish optimism. He wasn't ever going to let her go.

He thought marriage would tame her wild spirit, settle her restless nature. But, by that point, Grandma and I had washed our hands of my father's troubles and we didn't see him again until after the wedding, when the fairytale romance had already begun to fray. He burst through our front door late one night, his eyes darting towards the windows, his fingers fumbling with the locks, as if he was waiting for an attack. His breathing was rapid, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. "She tried to kill me," he whispered, his eyes wide with fear. He showed us the thin, crimson gash on his arm, a stark reminder of the violence that had erupted in their home. We tried to ask him what had happened, but he seemed too scared to relive the moment, too afraid of what she might do if he spoke the truth aloud.

The end of his visit came when there was a knock at the door; Dad sprang up from the couch, his eyes wide with fear, fixed on the door as if it were a ticking time bomb. We all knew who it was, without needing to hear her voice or see her face. It was that intuition you can't explain, that gut feeling that tells you something is true, even when you don't have all the facts. And sure enough, when Grandma went to the door, she found the woman my father had married, the one we'd all been dreading. Grandma tried to tell her to leave, threatened to call the police, but my dad's new wife just dissolved into tears, sobbing an apology that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. Even I, who had grown to despise her, couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy.

Dad went to her, his expression a mixture of guilt and longing. I tried to stop him, grabbing his arm, pleading with him not to give in to her tears. But he just smiled, patted my head like I was a child, and kissed me goodbye, the taste of his sadness lingering on my lips. He walked out the door that night, leaving behind a trail of shattered dreams and broken promises. The next time I saw him was a couple of hours later, lying on a cold metal table in the morgue, his lifeless body a stark reminder of the devastating consequences of that fateful night.