You weren't there. You don't know anything about it. You know what you've heard and the stories you've been told and you think that suffices. Like you're some kind of witness by association. That's not the way it works.
See, I saw the whole thing. And you can spin it any way you want.I don't give a shit, but I'm done...alright. Just fucking stop it.
I'll tell you one more time. I hadn't spoken to her in months. I was worried. I drove all fucking night and showed up to a dark house and locked doors. I went around back and jimmied the sliding door. The smell inside was awful. Hard to describe. Spoilt milk and cigarettes and that taste you get when a tooth goes bad.
I covered my face with my bandana and went inside, expecting to find a dead body. What I didn't expect to find was my little sister, sitting in the middle of a dark room, covered in her own shit, mumbling to herself.
You know what it's like to see something like that? It's cold and she's naked and just...covered with it. She looks at me and doesn't see. There isn't even a flicker of recognition. My heart burned.
I picked her up and said soft things while I dragged her to the bathroom. I got her cleaned up. Then I made the call. The white coats came soon. I'd make the call again.
You're embarrassed for the family? Are you fucking crazy? Be embarrassed for yourself. Think about the reasons you care more about your reputation than your daughter, and then be ashamed.
And stop going to the hospital. She doesn't want you there. No one does.
All the harshness, coarseness, in this piece is made all the more heartbreakingly real by the contrast line: "I picked her up and said soft things...".ReplyDelete
Thanks, Jo. ;)Delete