you're too young & eager to love

In response to daintiestmartyr's latest post/piece.






The funny thing is that you love horror movies.
Or you did until your life turned into one.

You’re a smart girl. You know to run out the door rather than up the stairs. You know to lock windows and to never live in a large house, alone, in the middle of the woods. You do not give rides to hitchhikers and, just to be safe, you avoid the street gutters less an evil beast in the shape of a clown is there, lurking, waiting to offer you a floating balloon. You used to be okay with dark alleys; now, you jump at your own shadow and avoid mirrors.


Your mother died of cancer five years ago. You’re grateful for that, even though when it happened you were not ready, and you cried for three weeks straight. Your father’s lukewarm affection became even more limited, but he fixed you coffee every morning and gave you the occasional smile of a stern military man. You bought your mother’s coffin in a violent sundress, and you poisoned your father’s orange juice when it was time to run. He would never have left, you know, not that house with your mother’s pictures and the family heirlooms. His old war injury in his left leg made him weak, incapable of surviving. You think, if there’s a heaven, he is watching and appreciating the gesture.
He passed with his dignity on a sunlit morning. Warm in the bed he had shared with your mother for fifteen years. Outside, inhuman cries were already approaching the horizon.
You didn’t cry, although you had wanted to. Your sobs choked on the vomit in your throat. You got sick in the bathroom. Milk and cornflakes.
Then you left.