Toxic Us.

: C :

When you try to die, people tend to become attached to you more. In my case this only happened with my emotional unstable father. The man was as strong as a plastic windmill, able to be tossed around in the wind like nothing was fucking happening.

We sat on the dinner table, both of us held plastic plates and cutlery. We hadn't used the real, good stuff since my attempt. Still I always thought if I tried hard enough that knife in my hand could puncture a lung, I hoped so.

He always started talking at the table; he hated silence in the home. Since growing up with nine sisters there wasn't any silence when he was a kid. I can sympathise my aunts must have chatted until their house lost all oxygen. I'm surprised my father made it out of their alive and not gay.

Just sensitive, he was goddamn sensitive that was for sure.

"Why did you want to kill yourself?" He always asked it, and each time he would drop his knife and fork to fidget with his hands just like I would.

"I didn't" I answered; peas that I'd been chewing sprayed juices on the table which neither of us bothered to mention.

"You didn't want to kill yourself?" He sounded hopeful, he always sounded too fucking hopeful when it came to me.

"No I just wanted to die, and I didn't think it would be possible to hire anybody to kill me. Even if I did hire a hit man it would be a tragic way to go, spending you last bucks on a killer. Wouldn't it? Or am I just fucking crazy like every tells me?"

He didn't answer, just cried.

His tears landed in the lumpy mashed potato he'd been eating.

That was how the course of dinner went most nights. On the odd occasion he would cry for his wife's absence. She left when I was four, some man named Roberto swept her up with tequila and sex. They both landed in a cemetery in Mexico a few weeks later, drug overdose. What I wouldn't give to die that easy.

I still ate despite the crying, finished the plate clean throwing it in the bin and left my weeping father at the kitchen table. I walked to my room, entering and collapsing on the bed hoping the sheets would smother me.

Sighing when they didn't I closed my eyes plotting possible ways to end my life.

I didn't come up with many.

Jumping from the church steeple seemed nice.

A whistle in your ears and a pretty view before you die seemed really nice.

Like my death would be that nice.

It wouldn't.

As I lay their Eve came into my mind, mixed up in all that death.

I'd seen her around before, but sitting with her today was different that just seeing her around.

She was a mess.

Honey yellow hair that either was dirty or she had a naturally shitty dirty honey hair. It was up for the first time in the year I'd been watching her like the fucking psycho I am. Her eyes were to round for her face, the gray orbs filling her face. Flared jeans and a tie-dye t-shirt covered her body both equally as trashy as the next.

Parkinson's.

That strange Marty Mcfly crap.

I reached for my phone thrown to the side, typing it in.

After reading a few sentences I came to the conclusion this chick was practically their queen.

I smiled.

God must want to screw with me even more.