“I’m so lonely,” she said. “I do everything alone. I come home, the house is dark—none of the lights are on. I open the front door and there’s no one there to greet me. I eat alone, I watch the same movies over and over, and then I go to bed.”
“I hate being in one room,” she continued. “The silence is unbearable. The walls suffocate me.”
mom—soul of father
father—is actually dead, only we can see him even though he appears alive
me—surprised he’s living
me—in purgatory—people ushering me along are actually demons, and show their true faces once i’ve realized that i’m dead
tupac—friend smoked his ashes
cartman—ate kenny’s ashes
that movie where the man promised never to tell anyone that he saw that gargoyle..but he did
I hate that I feel this way, but often, I think of my family as a burden. My mom unburdens herself of all her sorrows upon me, but I’m resentful because it burdens me, sucking me down into this place of despair and hopelessness. A place where I’m afraid that I ultimately, inevitably reside.
I wonder if my dad felt this way, too. I wonder if it was a relief for him when he could finally be at peace.
And why should I always have to be the strong one? I’m only three years older than my sister. I had to pave my own way, against my parents’ wishes; why do I have to show my mom the way now, after her years of resistance to knowing the outside world?
I have no choice, though. They have no one else.
According to my mother, I’m a bad older sister and a disappointment as a daughter.
My mother keeps my father’s picture beside her pillow. Before she goes to sleep, she tells him, “Come back. Come to my dreams.”
She hates to sleep alone. She’s always been afraid of the dark.
