|"Okay, yes, I did say that god is dead and |
that bestiality is funny. But is that really any reason
to ban me from your church?!?!"
My mouth was a crib and it was growing lies
I didn't know what love was on that day
My heart's a tiny blood clot
I picked at it
It never heals, it never goes away
This was never my world
You took the angel away
I'd kill myself to make everybody pay
I would have told him then
He was the only thing that I could love
In this dying world
But the simple word of "love" itself
Already died and went away
My heart's a bloodstained egg
We didn't handle with care
It's broken and bleeding
And it will never repair
My dad walked into my room this morning, shaking my bottle of medication and brandishing a tall glass of water.
“Kagey,” he sang and tripped over the dogs, who despite knowing my father for the past seven fucking years still like to bark at him. “Time for your morning med-”
He stopped short and his mouth dropped open at the sight of me.
I looked up from where I was sitting on my bed and caught his expression of disbelief. “What?” I asked, looking down at myself to see what he saw. But I had no new tattoos, no new piercings, no hand exploring between my legs. “What’s wrong?”
“Y-your book,” he stuttered and pointed the glass of water at the book in my hands. “What the hell are you reading?”
I flipped over my thick novel and looked at the cover. It wasn’t that bad; a faded woman’s cleavage, with a hand pressing lilacs between her boobs. Kinda boring, if you ask me.
“What are you doing?” he bleated, awkwardly plonking my water onto the bureau in a daze.
“What?” I asked, looking at the book again. “It’s Anna Karenina.”
“Yes, I know,” he said impatiently. “That’s what I mean. What are you doing? That’s literature.”
I rolled my eyes and tossed the book onto my bed. “Yes, well, Dad, I’ve decided to push past pornography and takeout menus and read a real book.”
He sat down heavily on the end of my bed, distressed. Misha took this as her cue to scratch at his ankles and wail to be picked up, but Dad didn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered. “My world is turning upside down.”
“Jesus Christ, thanks for the support, Dad,” I moaned, then held out my hand and smiled winningly. “Now gimme some drugs.”
Dad has become my personal drug slinger as of late, since my last trip down Suicide Lane. It’s a role I’m certain he just relishes, being in charge of his unstable, lunatic daughter’s meds. Yippee.
“Got my money?” he quipped, and I groaned and smacked myself in the face with my book.
“Now whose world is turning upside down?” I demanded as he shook my pills into my hand and handed me my water.
“Don’t pick at your face,” he replied, gently pulling my hand away from my cheek, where my fingers were digging out their own new piercing, of their own accord.
“Sorry,” I muttered, and tossed my pills into my mouth.
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Now then. What’s your plan for today?”
I finished my water and smiled importantly. “Well, Obama and I are hosting a strip-off for charity at ten, then Michelle Bachman and I are lezzing out at two to raise money for her totally misguided, psychotic campaign,” I gushed, twirling my hair in my fingers and smiling up at the ceiling. The Daily Show was playing quietly in the background, which is, of course, the only reason I even know who Barrack Obama and Michelle Bachman are. And where the United States are, incidentally.
“Mmmmm,” Dad said. “Gross. Now what are your real plans?”
“Counseling, meeting, not throwing up,” I droned petulantly. “Same as yesterday.”
“That’s my girl,” he said and patted me on the shoulder. “Now get to it.”
“Dad?” I said as he got up to leave the room.
“Yes?” he replied, collecting my meds and the empty glass.
“You still think I’m going to get better, right?” I asked.
He stopped, then turned to stoop down and look me right in the eyes. “Yes. Yes, I still believe that you are going to get better.”
“But why?” I whispered, and he gathered me into a hug. "Everyone else has abandoned ship." I pressed my face against his shoulder and started to cry for the millionth time this week.
“Because you're my little girl,” he spoke into my hair, and squeezed me tighter. “I've seen you fight this before and win, and I know you can do it again."
"I've been doing something really weird," I blurted out quickly before I could change my mind.
"What's that?" he asked.
"I keep going to Michael's grave," I said.
Dad was quiet for a moment. "Why?" he said finally.
"I don't know," I admitted.
He was quiet again for another moment. "I don't know what to say, Kage. I think you should talk to Girl Counselor about it. You wouldn't have mentioned it if it wasn't bothering you."
"I guess," I said.
"Will you talk to Girl Counselor about it?" he asked, leaning his cheek against my forehead.
"Yeah, okay," I said. "I will."
“I’m not going to publish your writing posthumously,” he announced suddenly, and pulled me back to his chest to squeeze me tightly. “If you want to be a writer, Kage, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
And with that he let me go, stood up and walked out of my room, without looking back.
I sat by myself for a moment, looking down at Misha and Billy, who were both totally miffed that Dad had completely ignored their dramatic posturings for attention.
“He always knows just the right thing to say,” I whispered to them. Billy barked excitedly, which is totally out of character for him. I laughed for the first time in days.
“Let’s go eat some fucking breakfast,” I said, and followed my dogs out of the room.
|"Hey kids! The afterlife is fun!"|