Your OF is why she k* herself
I don't know where to put this anger I feel. This unbridled rage. It has been thirty six days since my little sister killed herself. Thirty six. And life just keeps going. It does not fucking stop.... A life ended. A little girl who completed me is no longer here, and the world keeps turning, the sun goes down, comes up, birds are fucking chirping, wind is blowing. And she is dead. Her life stopped. And the world just keeps on pushing.... and pushing.... and pushing... And fucking going and we're all just fucking living, and I'm existing and she is dead.
My little sister wasn't popular. It is impossible when you come from trash. We do not have the same father(mine black and hers white)so our struggles were very different. And, I had the one advantage of my father leaving. Because, when he left, there was somewhere for me to go, where I felt like I belonged. I could always go to my Granny, while my sister just had me. And I was not always present. I'm ten years older, and my mother and I are nothing more than blood relation.
My sister called me fifty seven times the morning he took her life, and, ironically enough, I got none of the calls. I was in surgery. The surgery I told no one about. When I finally woke up and they gave me my phone, I did not look at it. I was in a lot of pain. The phone rings and rings, and I finally answer and my mother is screaming in the phone that she finally did it. And I can'teave the hospital. She left me a note. It was the password to her tablet. I opened it, and I read through every single thing. Her friends told her that they saw something online and they wanted to tell her before anyone else found out. Our mothers only fans. And, on that only fans, is my 59 year old mother, and her 60 year old bigot husband, my little sisters father, having sex with two men. Both of them.
Sometimes, I like to pretend that my little sister is alive. I talk to her sometimes. At night, I swear that I can see her....or feel her...or smell her perfume. She always smelled like cookies and vanilla sugar and bubble gum. And her laugh was ridiculous. And when I'm done pretending, I am filled with so much anger and hatred. My mother... Is taking none of the responsibility but enjoying the pay out. The donations, the free food, the sympathy. She is enjoying all of it, while I sit in an empty apartment talking to the walls.
I told her what happened and what my sister saw, and she said: "It's just sex. Grow up." I drove six hours back home, knocked on her door, and attacked her. She called the police and I took a tire iron to ant and everything I could before they got there. I got arrested and bailed out, drove back and attacked her again. And arrested again. The officer drove me down thirty minutes into town and dropped me off at a diner and told me that if he sees me again, he'll have me under the jail,but to take care because he feels so bad.... Apparently, my baby sister was a good kid.
I went home and told my little sister all about it... I have her ashes. My mother didn't fight me for them, so I have the teddy bear urn sitting by my bedside so she can sleep with me. And I keep the light on for her because I know she's scared of the dark.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise, and everyone gets up and they go on with life, and they enjoy life, and she will be dead. And my mother will get more money to drink up. And her husband can pretend to be happy. And I'll talk to the walls until I can do nothing but crawl under the bed and cry. And then I'll go to work.
We have court in a few weeks. My dad said my mother will probably not pursue charges if he pays her, but that isn't smart. I want her to pursue them.