Afterthought

All I can remember of that gloomy January morning was the flashing lights of the semi truck heading straight towards my parents' 2000 Ford Expedition.  Sadly, the colossal SUV was no match for the Dunkin' Donuts delivery truck.  Powdered sugar lingered in the frosting air as I stared down at the mangled, bloody bodies of my beloved parents.  

My tears tasted sweet, with a slight hint of coconut.

The ambulance ride was a blur, and before I knew it, I was being whisked away by "The Devil", my new foster mother.  I stayed in her care for ten agonizing years of abuse, torture, and neglect before a kindered spirit took pity on my poor, unfortunate soul.  Imagine the musical, Annie.  I was the neglected orphan and Hillary was my Daddy Warbucks, my new supplier of trendy skinny jeans, black eyeliner, and ironic converse shoes.  I knew from the first time we spoke, and she asked me, "What's your name again?" that our relationship would blossom into a loving fern.