Faded

I climb a tree and wait until I see my dad's truck pull back out of the driveway again before I go home. My muscles are twitching and my legs are shaking, my favorite part of the after-run fatigue. I feel like I'm walking on air. And then I see the note. And then my shoes fill with lead, and the air I was walking on isn't so sturdy anymore, and I crash right down to the floor. And I pick up the note and I read it and I crumple it up and I crumple up into a little tiny ball and feel even smaller.
"I'm leaving. My lawyer will be by to get all of my stuff and my share of the money. I love you, kids." But of course he doesn't love mom. Of course not. He hasn't for years. And I need to go upstairs and I need my paperclip and I need my dog. I slip off my sweatpants on the way up the stairs and slam my door and grab the paper clip and finally finally something is okay. I'm alive, don't worry. I can see the blood on my leg, I can finally hear my heart beat again, and I can finally feel past the numb that is taking over.
My lead shoes are dotted with blood now, I cut a little deeper than I though. Hot, red, life drips down my leg and into my sock and my shoe. Pepper comes in and I think, 'Thank God,' because I might have lost it. She licks of the blood like her doggy spit will make me all better, like there isn't something seriously wrong with me and my life. Like I'm all she has.
I kick off my lead shoe and let her chew on it.
She's all I have that matters.