If I were to die tomorrow,
would you tell my story,
and would you tell it well;
tell it truthfully? Or would
there be so little to say,
that only silence could fill
the empty void which makes
up my obituary? I held this life
in my hand on too many
an occasion, preventing
myself from ever cherishing
what I had while it was truly
my own, and by the end
when the final beat exited
this heart of mine, perhaps
it was not death I wished
for, but life instead. The irony
of such circumstance
could never be melted down
into a purposeful existence,
and though death was always
an acceptable choice,
by the end, it may well
have not been my own.
Destiny is inescapable,
as I might soon discover,
and if my life is to be proven
forfeit, might I have
the pleasurable luxury
of knowing I will be remembered,
along with all the rest.
Below is the link to a reading of this poem, along with the reading of ‘Shangri La’, a poem I recently published on this blog: http://youtu.be/O6TSAbTLrd0
I dream of an infinite darkness
so impenetrable, it is like nothing
I have ever witnessed. I watch
as it sweeps across the surfaces
of my mind, leaving the corroded
charcoal of once good memories
in its wake, the black powder
billowing across all that has been
razed to the ground. I know now
without the need for confirmation
what this agony surely means;
the darkness inside me is winning.
The condition of my internal body
parts has contaminated every inch
of my foundations which can no
longer stand without the assistance
of another. But who alive would dare
commit to such a grievous endeavor?
My confidence was one such victim
of the nuclear haze that blurs the senses
of my fractured mind, belittled by
the pains of life, and where others
may see happiness, all I ever look
upon is a never ending damnation.
If only past lovers could see me
now, would they have ever really
loved me at all? Would they smile,
so graciously, knowing that they
jumped the flooding ocean liner
before it started sinking?
Nothingness has a hold over me,
much like a boa-constrictor, and if
the light does not shine through
before the dusk settles over
the horizon, I fear that when the
morning comes, I will awake no more.
It would be so much easier to end
the savage journey now, than live
with its continuation looming over
my shoulders, which falter as though
the weight of the universe is applied
to my body. I would exit the world
on the same day that I was entered
into it, for could it not be seen
as a mistake if I, a broken soul, am alive
in the first place?
If normality is not indeed my brethren,
do I not deserve to die? If not for me,
then for someone else, to submit a favor
upon the minds of others, because to
gaze upon such a wretched beast is surely
not good for one’s well-being. I would
strike my flesh with a razor, and strip away
my bruised exterior, to reveal unto
the world outside my own how red
the blood of a pained individual can be.
But what of the fingers of a famed heroine,
who gently caresses that which the razor
has not yet touched, and removes the jagged
metal from my fingertips before I can
ruin my body some more? Nobody would want
me if I were mutilated flesh, for many have
a problem with my suit of skin the way it is
already. My hope for invisibility is removed
in the instant that I am touched by gracefulness,
for in the end that is all I ever did want;
to be noticed by an affectionate hand.
It is pointless for I to love thee,
for you could never have feelings
for the person that I am. Never
could you look to me and think
how you wished to experience
a dinner, with I sitting across
the table for two from where
you are seated.
Never do I enter your dreams
as you lie comfortably
in bed, beside a man who,
in comparison to me, has none
of my many features, because
inside and out, we are not
the same, and never will I hold
anything of interest to your
heart and happiness.
Because of this, I will cry myself
to sleep this night I am without you,
and every night that is to come,
until time itself no longer ticks,
for although the realist in me
knows how pointless my pain
surely is, and how it shall go
the romantic in me still holds
onto the belief that a destiny
together awaits us on the
other side of tomorrow.
So let it be writ that I can wait no
longer for my wanted paramour
to fall into these arms of mine,
and although the dark clouds
of a mighty depression are
brewing beyond my window,
with the torrential rain of
painted death preparing
to serenade my soul, I will
not allow the plan I had once
considered to become the
fate that shall greet me next
Once there was an unhappy
time when I would have
contemplated shoving a blade
through my jugular and
expelling the water from within;
such would have been excruciating,
but afterwards, all I would have felt
is shock before falling into a deep,
dark coma, from which I would
never awake nor see daylight
I live by myself, and I realise,
that no one would have
found my body, until I was
nothing more than a fleshy
heap of compost gathering
flies upon the surface of what
was once clean carpet.
But I know that this fate would
never lead to the woman that I
love the most, and although you
may not love me tomorrow,
nor any day that comes
thereafter, I will love thee until
I find another amazing woman
who steals my heart away, who
I hope will not already have
her love belonging to another.
Until that day does arrive, I will
love you, and that for me is
good enough at this very moment.
If love is a battlefield,
then I have been caught
in a war torn country,
with regret as my companion.
I had a chance to find
happiness, and I had another
not too long ago,
and yet I still have hopes
that the one I truly love
will see for who I am
and say ‘I want you,
I love you, I have been
waiting tirelessly for you
my whole life; marry me,
would you, you are all
I have been searching for,
and together we shall
never be apart no more.
Let loneliness be abandoned
in these arms of mine
as you hold me to your heart
so I may hear the beat
that I inspired,
for without me you are flotsam,
and without you I am
not myself, but combined
we are everything we need
to see this journey through,
and never shall we be without
the other.’ But this is but
a dream, and dreams, they
do not come true except
in fairy tales, which this
is not, because the gloom
of this here world
lingers upon my shoulders.
Many live for love, so
I doubt it could be
surprising if one were to die
for such an emotion too.
When an unknown man
walks in with a shotgun,
I gladly throw my arms out,
outstretched at my side
as though I am to be crucified,
and I cry for him to slay me,
but no, he shoots himself
instead. It seems that love
has claimed yet another victim,
and it be ironic that an emotion
of such happiness is responsible
for so much death.
There is barely enough left
to describe the stranger
that lies upon the ground;
one second he was alive,
the next he was no longer,
and has become yet
another faceless man in a crowd
of aching hearts, and no matter
how hard I screamed, never
would he have pulled
the trigger with the barrells
aimed down at me.
I want death so badly,
but I do not want to commit
the act myself no more,
for I am terrified my heart
will cramp up and my body
will stutter, and that will
be the start of yet another
colossal failure. The only
way to guarantee success
is at the hand of another;
but what hand would happily
do what I feel must be done?
But maybe I am scared
of death, and have mistaken
cowardice for absolution,
and if this be the case
I needn’t live with such ignorance,
so please, someone smarter
than I notify me,
so I may die with my intellect
intact before I reach my end.
Ain’t that title truthful
of my life
within the confines
of the room
that I here occupy.
For although I am alone,
I am the father of despair;
I am death incarnate,
and I have
happily come for me.
Unbeknownst is this written woe
upon the brittle page,
as drown within myself I do
inside the windowless room,
which robs me of my oxygen
within a Hell
of my own creation.
I have made my bed
that is cluttered with nails
and nightmarish images,
as all positivity is denied
of its existence.
Hatred and loathing
greet me to no end,
with a dash of disappointment
and unending disgust
accompanying the feelings
of nefarious intent.
These hardened feelings
of exponential pain
engulf my soul
in an ocean of glassy monsters
that my reflection postulates,
shall grant me the option
the man I ought to be.
I long to wish away
but fruition will never be granted
upon the hope
that springs forth from my chest.
Although there is an end in sight
from such unrelenting horror
of the mind,
it feels further away
than what it truly is.
This fate reveals itself
once reality steps out
from beyond the curtain
and bites down hard
upon my aching heart.
The longer I reside
within this gruesome environment,
the more I become content
with an alternate resolution
to escape from my unhappiness.
But this cure
is one I cannot accept,
however, what is it I can do
when I have given up
on life itself,
and worse, life,
has given up on me.
This poem is so dark, you’ll need a torch
to read it; a flicker of fire in
a lightning strike to illuminate the
dark passageways that branch forth from the page.
In a country of fertile happiness,
where the spoils of luck and understanding
are the undying wealth of the people,
who am I to take such an emotion
away from them and replace it with my
own? If the destiny of the many
is to live a life filled with purpose and
solidarity, I for one do not
represent the purveyance of peace and
equality, but of emotional
disdain and decadence from which there is
no escape available to be found.
Although I have discussed these feelings with
those of a ‘professional’ nature
who are supposed to help thee in times of
turmoil and distress, never was a cure
granted to me on a silver platter.
I was given as much acknowledgement
as a pariah, and thus my pain has
grown and grown until it is all I have
become. Lessons are not what are learned for
actions speak much louder, and I have heard
the words of interlopers, and they sound
the same as me. The system is fraught with
problems, but none are able to be solved.
There are no noble heroes in the world
I reside in, there is only me, and
when a man is imprisoned with nothing
else but himself for company, he is
left as empty as a desert wasteland,
and believe me when I say I am a
prisoner – and the loneliness is my
jail cell. Although this prison is without
bars, freedom is not necessarily
granted just by walking out, for where is
one to turn, when dead ends are everywhere?
I have never felt more alone than I
do right now in this very moment as
I write these many words, for I’m forced to
suffer the insufferable decay
of my own humanity keeping me
company until I die. Everyone
has someone it would seem; someone to hug,
to kiss, to love; everyone but me. I
made peace with my many demons a long
time ago, and I became quite content
with the knowledge that I would never find
myself romantic companionship, and
then she happened to walk into my life,
and all of a sudden everything changed.
I came to hope that perhaps I was not
doomed to spend my life alone, but as great
as that hope was, it was nothing more than
a lie of omission, false like Santa
Claus, for she left me, just like everyone
else, and so I was inevitably
dragged back, all the way into the doldrums
depths. With these words written, there is nothing
else for me to do but dry the liquid
that streams forth from my eyes with a tissue
and hope for better days. Have you ever
felt so lonely, that even loneliness
didn’t dare associate with you? Have
you ever felt so lonely you wanted
to kill yourself just to end it all; just
so you could have company, even if
that companion was your own blood lying
beside you rather than inside you? My
musings are that of a broken man, cursed
by loneliness and grief, and because of
this reason I am going to murder
myself today, and I’ll gladly serve my
prison sentence for this crime. This prison
is unlike the one I lived within for
so long now, and is instead alternate
in nature; hypothetical to be
exact, for the dead do not grieve over
the crimes of the living, even if that
is all I care for right now. I cannot
think of another option to erase
the loneliness from my heart. I’m sorry
for my lack of strength, but I cannot stand
the pain, and so must permanently leave.
Blacketh my bones with the foul
blood from my frozen withered
heart. Don’t look upon me, the
hideous one for you shall
feel nothing more than a cold
chill travelling over you,
along with the high shriek of
a baby’s cry from staring
too long into these abysmal
eyes. You will find no pleasure
here. I am the pariah;
the interloper; a zealot
of the worst order. I am
emotionless; barren; a
sociopathic beast worthy
of nothing else but a death
deserving of the most Hellish
of all beings. My body will
not be buried with the bones
of men, nor will it be buried
in a grave unmarked by words,
but in an underground pit
where no one will ever have
to suffer me again, for
I have already been
suffered enough and the people
can suffer me no more. At
least this is what has been said
before, the words carried on
the wind to my ear like ghostly
echoes from a supernatural
realm. This is the justification
for treating me with such disdain.
As long as I am viewed as
something less than human then
the people needn’t concern
themselves with guilt-ridden feelings
cuz there is nothing to be
sympathetic for. I have
been loathed intensely by most,
if not all, my entire
life; another fifty or
so years of pure unadulterated
disgust cannot be too difficult
to endure. If it does however
and these words are proven inaccurate,
stabbing my own flesh with a
pointed dagger will certainly
do the trick. I only hope
that nobody has a resurrection
spell, for if they do, alive
I shall be again once more,
for with me but gone, who will
these people come to hate? There
is no one else more disliked
in this world. I only wish
society would learn to
shield its expression, for the
hate is written all across
their faces in italics.
On top of this, my other
wish is just to be left alone.
Can I not die in peace, sad
and alone and afraid in
a blackened hole away from
the eyes of the people? Apparently
that is too much to ask.
On the day I do pass away, no one
shall dress in black. There will be
no funeral procession; there will
be no obituary; there will be but
a wren on my windowsill, chirping
happily where I never did. Find
comfort in this if you can, for
there is no comfort to be had
here. These words have no
rhyme; no syllable; no purpose;
they are as dead as the dried
blood I left for you; the only
thing I ever left for you; the only
thing I ever did right; left a perfect
puddle where I concluded my
effortless journey. Like my mouth
my wrists are open, like my lips my
wrists are red. I have never seen so
much red before, and it almost brings
a smile. It reminds me of the roses
I once had and in my bodily liquid I
see them again, their petals eagerly
awaiting the opportunity to lick my
wounds. Washed away are my
troubles in the blood in the
shadow of one last ‘good-bye.’ No
note, no reason, there’s none to give.
If you still don’t know why, like you
didn’t know then, I ain’t gonna bother
letting you inside to admire my cuts
and bruises. I’m broken; I’m defeated;
my life source is all but waning. I don’t
have the will to carry on, so I cut down
deep like taking an axe to a tree, my
wrists are felling and I suddenly feel
again. Maybe this ain’t right, maybe I
am wrong, but who’s going to say such
things as my insides flow out around
me onto my navy blue tiles? My life
flashes before me, twilight’s upon me
and as always, you’re not here. The
arterial red draining from my body fills
my heart with so much glee. I’m glad to
be rid of the pain; of me; of you. There
was never a better time to say goodbye
like the present, but the words still fail to
come. Like ‘help’ the vowels and
adjectives become stuck in my throat,
such alien terms gurgling down deep,
frustrating me as always with their
symbolism. I am glad it is over, do you feel
the same? For the record, I ain’t apologising,
I always knew it had to be this way. I
wonder if mommy will be impressed right
now, she never was before. Death is the
cure I’ve been looking for, has it been
the same for you all this time? I’d ask you
to join me in Purgatory, but I’ve been
there already half my life and know it
better than I know myself. I ain’t going to
no better place; I ain’t going to no happy
ending. I’m just going, and this time
I promise you, I will not be coming home.
‘We should do it’ she cried,
‘it sounds like fun’, the portal
but an inch from closing.
‘I am uncertain’ stated I,
‘I am weighed down with doubt;
what if we cannot get back?’
‘Nonsense’ said she, ‘you shouldn’t
talk like that, boys should
be more gung ho.’ ‘Okay Alex’
I said, ‘let’s do this’ and the
two of us walked in.
The portal closed upon
arrival; it was instant and
quick, our world now long
gone. Instead of a house,
we stood now in a yard
of graves, the name on one
tombstone looking quite
familiar. ‘Derek’ it was written,
and the last name was ‘Childs’,
yet the child-like ambience
was now all but gone.
‘Where do you think mine is?’
asked Alex, before seeing my
face and she said ‘I’m sure it
means nothing’ and yet, I was
not thinking about me. The
tombstone meant death and
yet it was not mine, but at
the same time, it could very
well have being. I thought of
what could have happened;
how this could have come
to pass, and I was filled
with life, not dread.
What did this Derek do? Was
he at all like me? Did anyone
love him? Did his death
mean anything; sacrifice or
martyr, or was it purely
meaningless? Was it his fate
or was it chosen for him? Did
he accomplish his endeavours
or leave behind a life
unfinished? I noticed not any
tombstones that bore resemblance
to his and pondered who, if
anyone had been left behind.
A wife perhaps; several
adoring children, or were there
no family to speak of; was
he a loner like me? If so,
his death was warranted
for even I on occasion had
longed for the blood to bleed
forth from my body. If not,
and there were indeed loved
ones to speak of, then
even I would be content
with a death like that.
Stereotypically, perhaps not
a happy conclusion, but
not all endings are. If he
was loved and his life was
fulfilled, then maybe there
was still hope for me. ‘This
is why we came here’ I said,
‘now I know what I must
do; I must live life now, and
leave behind a cadaver
worthy of recognition.’
My words may seem
heartless but are with
absolute certainty not untrue,
as the portal we arrived
through appeared once more.
With one last look at my
entombed reflection, Alex
and I left behind the yard
and returned to the one we
unfortunately lived in. Death
be not joyous, but it’s where
we all go, and at least my
story now had a beginning.
SYNOPSIS: Looks over a day in the life of two friends and the separate lives they live, and how everything could have turned out differently if but not for one single event.
This piece contains very explicit coarse language, sexual references and some disturbing themes.
I opened my eyes, the sun bathing my room in a vast ocean of light. Music posters lined the walls and used clothes were scattered randomly across the floor. I jerked the sheets from under me, my body crying out for rest. A sudden sexualised feeling came over me as I pulled down my pants. Grabbing hold of my growing penis I quickly began to masturbate, the feeling being extraordinarily intense as I groaned in pleasure.
To aid in the erection I thought of Ophelia, her body being both luscious and fantastical. Her permed blonde hair billowed across her face, her brilliant turquoise eyes staring back at me; her wet lips looking as moist as ever. Her tight jeans reflected her magnificent legs and fantastically formed arse; her short top revealing the snake tattoo imbedded permanently around her belly button.
I breathed a sigh of relief, semen rushing out from the tip of my penis, successfully accomplishing my erotic morning entertainment. Taking a deep breath, I pulled myself out of bed, dressing myself in appropriate casual wear for my university classes. Hurrying down the stairs to the kitchen, I gulped down my breakfast, bidding farewell my parents before briskly walking down to the train station.
Upon arriving, I wiped the sweat from my face as I stood with the other commuters, impatiently awaiting the train which was already three minutes late. My mind spontaneously turned to Camellia and as I thought of her I believed I saw her on the other side of the tracks as the train finally arrived. I clearly remembered what she had told me on her deathbed at the hospital that fateful night; two tubes connected to her nose, her bloodied appearance being far too overwhelming to believe. ‘I don’t care what it is you believe’ Camellia had said. ‘Just believe in her’ she managed, gesturing at Ophelia, before collapsing back into the bed.
It was these words that prevented me from being with Ophelia. She was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was simply to be admired, not taken advantage of. Besides, she didn’t see anything in me.
Escaping my delusional fantasy I boarded the train, the doors closing behind me.
I sat at the back of the psychology class; the lecturer arriving as I eagerly awaited for Ophelia. Upon arrival she looked exactly as I had imagined her in my wet dream as she sat beside me. Under the light, the piercings in her face were clearly visible, shining beautifully under the fluorescence.
‘Did I miss much?’ asked Ophelia, sounding a little out of breath.
‘No, it’s all bullshit anyway’, I grunted with a smirk which Ophelia returned.
‘Donald’s getting worse’ she finally said, looking a little afraid. ‘He hates me, I know it.’
‘Your father doesn’t hate you’ I shot back reassuringly. ‘Camellia’s death has been difficult for both of you. He is trying to cope with it, just as you are. All of these tattoos and piercings are your way of attempting to find yourself after such an ordeal.’
Ophelia sniffed as she took out her purse, opening it up to reveal an image of her and Camellia, the two of them looking exactly alike. With the exception that Camellia had a pink fluffy pair of rabbit ears atop her head. The image beside this was from their childhood. A skinny man sat in the centre, his broad smile being the most prominent feature. Seated on his lap were both his children, Ophelia wearing the rabbit ears in this photo.
‘It’s amazing how much things can change’ said Ophelia sadly as the lecturer interrupted our thoughts.
‘Happiness is one of the most powerful emotions of all. Go ahead, see how it feels by complimenting the person sitting beside you’ he said, as I rolled my eyes.
Ophelia turned to face me, looking deadly serious. ‘You’re a nice person’ I said awkwardly as Ophelia sniggered. I awaited my compliment, but before she had given it the lecturer began talking again, Ophelia becoming quite distant after that.
Sitting atop my bed in the late afternoon sun, my mind turned to Ophelia, believing she may have needed a little tenderness. Picking up the phone from my desk, I dialed the digits for her home phone, her mobile having being confiscated by her father after the tragic incident which claimed the life of his daughter. The phone rang continuously as I thought of hanging up, just as Donald’s pre-recorded voice came over the receiver.
‘Those fucking rabbit ears!’ he roared. ‘I can’t fucking stand them! They’re everywhere! I can’t remove them from my mind! Oh, but I will by fucken destroying the little fuckers!’ he cried out deviously, the line instantly going dead. Frozen in fear, I leapt from the bed and hurried out the door, racing towards Ophelia’s, fearing for her life as I traversed the darkening streets, sad and alone.
Upon arrival I sensed something was amiss. The entire house was pitch black, not a single trace of life originating from its eerie interior. I shuddered to myself as I navigated the disturbingly unkempt lawn, knocking on the wooden door which instantly swung open. I slowly walked on through, making my way into the lounge room tripping over something on the floor. As this occurred I threw out my hands to stop myself from falling, the carpet feeling drenched. I reached for the light and flicked it on, reeling at what I saw.
Donald lay on the floor, a revolver in his left hand. His entire body was covered in blood, the walls and floors the same. His head no longer looked like it once had, appearing to have being blown off by the gun blast as I found myself hyperventilating. What had Donald done? I ran for Ophelia’s room, which was completely vacant, hurrying back before pausing at the entrance of the bathroom, noticing some form of liquid on the floor. Turning on the light I felt my entire body sag, finding the floor covered in blood, hurrying for the bath where a body was located. I heard a whimpering from inside me as I threw my hands around Ophelia, her body having bled out from having each of her piercings and tattoos removed with a number of sharp instruments covering the floor. What had her father done I wondered, the word ‘no!’ escaping my lips, as I sobbed into her hair, feeling immense guilt for never revealing to her how I felt.
I awoke to Donald screaming. I quickly dressed and applied make-up, not wishing to further aggravate him as he appeared at my door.
‘What? Still not dressed you lazy cunt?’ he cried, holding a bottle of liqueur in his hands which he quickly finished, throwing it in my direction.
I ducked, the bottle shattering as it connected with the wall, pieces of glass flying across the room as Donald continued down the hall howling insanities. I noticed the rose tattoo on my leg and the piercings in my belly as I pulled up my jeans, grabbed my bag and hurried down the hall. I stopped outside my sister’s room where a pair of rabbit ears was placed atop a pedestal, an image of both of us smiling under it; one of our better moments. Avoiding my father, I raced out the door and hurried towards the bus that would take me to university.
I briskly walked into class and made my way over to Jared. Like always, he looked incredibly handsome as I sat beside him and began to quietly make conversation, beginning to feel life returning to my body once more. Upon mentioning the intense loathing my supposed father had for me, Jared burst into his usual sensitive drivel about how the both of us were attempting to find ourselves. I guess he didn’t realise that I had; I was exactly who I was meant to be.
Of all the people in the world I wished he would be the one to notice that as the lecturer before us broke through my thoughts, instructing us to complement one another.
I smiled, turning to Jared who looked a little taken aback as he turned to face me, his beautiful brown eyes looking directly into mine.
‘You’re a nice person’ he finally said, the words cutting through me like knives as I sniggered, attempting to hide the pain.
What I would have given to hear him tell me I was beautiful. To hear him say that he loved me, so much so in fact that he wished to take me outside and physically express it through non-stop frenetic, sexualised orgasmic activity. But no, he had completely rejected me as I became more and more distant from him with every second.
I lay on my bed that afternoon sobbing into my pillow, my black mascara running across my face. God I must have looked so pathetic, crying over some boy who I had had feelings for since the moment we had met. Donald’s sudden screaming brought me out of my stupor as I slowly made my way down the hall, finding him in the lounge room with the phone in one hand and a revolver in the other.
‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ he cried, brandishing the weapon at me as I backed away fearfully. ‘I have had it with the fucking rabbit ears and now, I remove them from my consciousness!’ Putting the gun to his head, he pulled the trigger. The effect was instantaneous. His head was completely mangled on impact, flakes of bloody facial tissue flying across the room, covering the walls as his body fell to the ground.
‘Well, it was bound to happen eventually’ I told myself, feeling a mixture of fear and contempt. Making my way to the bathroom I began to cry, tears streaming down my face, my entire body shaking. I thought of calling the police, but I knew deep down I was partly responsible for what had happened. Switching on the bathroom light I looked at my face in the mirror, before puking in the toilet bowel, wiping my face on a paper towel and staring back at my reflection. Neither Jared nor my father believed I was beautiful and if my sister were alive she too would have felt the same way. I looked at my reflection and saw a freak.
Loathed, rejected. I needed to be beautiful again.
I opened up the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a pair of tweezers, placing them on either side of my nose ring before ripping it out, blood flying across the mirror. The pain was excruciating, but I had to continue. I would not stop until I was beautiful once more, reaching my hand back into the cabinet and taking out a scalpel.
Lying in the bath, blood flowing around me, I lost consciousness, feeling contempt that I had achieved true beauty. I heard a door open, before hearing a cry of pain; noticing the shape of a person running to my side and embracing me. And as death took me, my last thoughts were of my sister.
She sat in the driver’s seat, the rain battering the windows on the dark, stormy night, the lights of passing motorists flying by.
‘Might I be able to borrow the rabbit ears?’ I asked from the passenger seat. She snorted.
‘No. They were mothers’. She would have wanted me to have them, especially since you killed her from being born last.’
I knew my sister was still affected by the booze we had over indulged on at the party, but I did not deserve such harsh treatment. ‘How can you say that to me?’ I cried.
‘Oh, fuck you!’ retorted Camellia as I felt an intense rage within me.
‘You know what Camellia, why don’t you just fucking die!’ I shouted as the truck came out of the shadows and plowed into us.