I miss the way she’d hug me when I was upset and not let go until she knew I was ready.
I found my seat in the back row. I wanted to see, but didn’t want people to see me. It made me uncomfortable when people saw me cry.
Suddenly, the guy comes completely to, rips out his tube, grabs my sister’s hand, and lets out this breathy little scream, “Don’t let me die, I’m going to hell. Please don’t let me die!”
The pain is a cold wind bearing against me, pushing me back. I don’t know what else to do but write to you.
“I just pushed his knife back into his throat while he kept trying to slash at my face, snapping his wrist in half in the process. I wasn’t even trying to kill or do any of that. I was just scared.”
Maybe, I’ll always wonder.
Stop checking for who called last, trust me, that isn’t important.
The question floored me. My response floored me more. I felt this intense pain. Immediately. Like it had all just happened yesterday. All of a sudden, I was vulnerable again.
I often wonder how different my life would have been if my mother hadn’t passed away when I was a young girl.
I won’t think of words like “ataxia” and “metastasized”, because that is not who he was.