I never knew the meaning of "it's a small town" until my dad died.
Before that, if you told me "it's a small town", I would have scoffed and thought "yeah, sure, this isn't a movie. Word doesn't spread like that". However, the day it happened, it wasn't long until everyone I knew gave me that pitiful, sympathetic look.
I don't want pity, and I know that's a cliche line, but I mean it. When you're going through the 'emotions', or grieving, I guess... those pitying glances are sharp. You feel them hit your soul. Like shitty daggers. It hurts, in a spiritual way. Like the ghost of your being was getting gutted by a dull knife.
This all feels so fucking cheesy but I don't even know how else to describe this shit. They're just words. Fucking deal with me, here.
"I'm sorry for your loss". Yeah, no shit. You'd only be sorry if you were in my shoes. But you're not, so you're only grateful it's not actually you. Unless you have gone through the loss of a parent; then I'm sorry. I get it, man. It's shit.
But I wish no one knew instead of everyone. I wish I had that 'mysterious past' vibe, where no one found out until I dramatically revealed it years later at a bar with a hookup from Hinge.
But no.
It's a small town.
That shit flies from one lip to another, like an airborne disease.
The looks.
The faces.
Their faces.
God.
I hate the big city life, but it would be better to live where no one knows me.
Just a stranger on the street.
- Drunk and grieving. 7/30/22. 7 years since he died.
Lucky fucking number 7. Funny. My favorite number.
I think I'm depressed.
AN: This is old, edgy for no reason, haha. I'm all good, was just "in my feels", as the kids say.
STAI LEGGENDO
Inspirations from the Intoxicated Wallflower
HorrorA collection of nonsensical, strange and unsettling short stories. Drunk, stoned, or overstimulated at a function- sometimes a bitch just gotta write what's on her mind. Most of these don't make sense, kinda funny, or shit I reread in the morning an...
