Trust Me
Prologue
When your best friend is taken away from you, everything doesn't seem worth doing. And when this happens when you're eight years old, you begin to hate the world.
I never understood death, I never will. It's not just going for an ever lasting sleep like the doctors and nurses told me. I knew that.
On my eighth birthday, I lost my dad, and my best friend.
He got hit down by a car, crossing the road, my birthday cake in his hands. He stepped out onto the road, his red converse clad foot slipping directly in a puddle. He swore, before carrying on into the road, his focus on his right foot. He didn't hear me over the buzz of the traffic. He didn't hear my screams. But I sure as hell heard his, as the beaten up car slammed into his right side. It was a frozen moment in time, his body flew across the road, my birthday cake smashing onto the floor, it's pink and purple frosting smeared across the concrete.
And I knew, as I looked at that sickly cake, it was my fault. My mother never forgave me. If I wasn't born, if it hadn't been my birthday, my daddy would still be alive. And when you're so young you're not going to forget it. It's not going to get easier, it's not going stop hurting. It's going to get a hell of a lot harder.
I saw it all. I still see it. Every time I go to sleep, the memory replays, so vividly, and I wake up screaming. I don't sleep very much anymore, caffine keeps me up. I discovered the wonders of coffee at ten years of age, and at the same time my mother discovered she was totally over the fact that the love of her life was dead, and that she was going to start dating. She and I had never been close, never will be. I was a daddy's girl, and even something like death isn't going to stop that.
So, we started moving from state to state about, 6 years ago. When she became the biggest whore you can possibly imagine at the age of 31. Most of her boyfriends are younger than her. But once they start getting 'attached' to her, talking about marriage, or worse love, we pack up and leave. The fucking state.
I hate the moves.
I hate the change.
I hate the dirty looks for being the kid in black.
I never make friends at new schools, no one really pays attention to me, and to be honest I couldn’t care less. I wear black, I'm still in mourning.
I hate my life. I just want to go back to being the happy seven year old I was, who had fun going to the park and playing catch with her dad.
And here I am today, 16, on my 23rd move in 6 years. To Belleville, New Jersey.
I never understood death, I never will. It's not just going for an ever lasting sleep like the doctors and nurses told me. I knew that.
On my eighth birthday, I lost my dad, and my best friend.
He got hit down by a car, crossing the road, my birthday cake in his hands. He stepped out onto the road, his red converse clad foot slipping directly in a puddle. He swore, before carrying on into the road, his focus on his right foot. He didn't hear me over the buzz of the traffic. He didn't hear my screams. But I sure as hell heard his, as the beaten up car slammed into his right side. It was a frozen moment in time, his body flew across the road, my birthday cake smashing onto the floor, it's pink and purple frosting smeared across the concrete.
And I knew, as I looked at that sickly cake, it was my fault. My mother never forgave me. If I wasn't born, if it hadn't been my birthday, my daddy would still be alive. And when you're so young you're not going to forget it. It's not going to get easier, it's not going stop hurting. It's going to get a hell of a lot harder.
I saw it all. I still see it. Every time I go to sleep, the memory replays, so vividly, and I wake up screaming. I don't sleep very much anymore, caffine keeps me up. I discovered the wonders of coffee at ten years of age, and at the same time my mother discovered she was totally over the fact that the love of her life was dead, and that she was going to start dating. She and I had never been close, never will be. I was a daddy's girl, and even something like death isn't going to stop that.
So, we started moving from state to state about, 6 years ago. When she became the biggest whore you can possibly imagine at the age of 31. Most of her boyfriends are younger than her. But once they start getting 'attached' to her, talking about marriage, or worse love, we pack up and leave. The fucking state.
I hate the moves.
I hate the change.
I hate the dirty looks for being the kid in black.
I never make friends at new schools, no one really pays attention to me, and to be honest I couldn’t care less. I wear black, I'm still in mourning.
I hate my life. I just want to go back to being the happy seven year old I was, who had fun going to the park and playing catch with her dad.
And here I am today, 16, on my 23rd move in 6 years. To Belleville, New Jersey.
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Uh yes. Feed back, please? x