I remember sadness from when I was a little girl. Death had taken someone close to my family but i was too young to comprehend the full impact or remember the details. In my teens death was harsh and in three. First my cousin, lost to cancer. She younger than me. Then the soccer player. Instant inexplicable death in the locker room after practice. Finally my friend. My Christopher all golden haired and perfect. That fateful day he had called... I wasn’t home, was on my way to see him. His death hit me like a tidal wave. Couldn’t breathe, think. Couldn’t eat for days. Thoughts of the trigger pull, the body lying in puddles of thick red blood. Forever congealed in my memory.
So much blood. Not Dexter’s mother’s death in a boxcar blood. But years after Christopher death decided to taunt me. What would I do to save a life? Always in the wrong place at the wrong time incapable of saving anyone a trio of attempted suicide’s came my way. I sound like I started to take the grim reaper personally. As if he had some ill intentioned manner to come after me, my friends, my life, and leave it drained; it certainly felt that way. There was Andrew, letters written in blood from states away. I didn’t take him seriously, who does that kind of thing? Well he did, ended up permanently damaged and locked away.
Shortly thereafter followed Jon. He was damaged from the start of our brief engagement. Scar ridden body I figured he was more into torture than the real thing. Body half eaten alive by Heroine and who knows what else. The tragic guitar player I couldn’t escape despite my best efforts. Until one day I finally did. Took a new job, moved my things into storage and hit the road. The phone call to my hotel room late at night as his blood filled the tub. Did he really want to die? He lost enough to, but the cops beet the door down and stuffed new blood in the places where he’d emptied out his own. Several months in a hospital and he never tried it again. Maybe the blood he was born with wasn’t good enough. Dead already. Suffocated him without his knowing and all it took was a quick transfusion to fix him.
With the record of grisly deaths (not The Thing grisly with the spit-drooling dogs; the old black and white version) everyone i come in contact with meats, I am forced to question why anybody would want aught to do with me. Even you, kind reader, you who are perusing this, my gruesome memoir, may well consider suicide after reading only three or four paragraphs.
Opening: J.R. Moore.....Continuation: Paul Penna