It feels

These days, my dad sits in his chair, shrivelled and yellowing, like a leaf curled in on itself, waiting to die.

He was jolly, once. Whisky drinkers often are. Red-nosed and big-bellied back then, he made everyone laugh. I drank with him.

My mother rattled around in her tacky jewellery, a chattering stick of a woman. She ignored me, mostly. This turned out to be a kindness: I couldn’t miss her when she was gone. I stole her pills.

A procession of experts tell me how to stop. Social workers, doctors, counsellors. They bully, cajole, ask pointless questions.

They ask me why I do it and I laugh at them. I don’t know what they’re looking for. They present me with other options, paint pictures of their idea of a better existence. I don’t want it, I don’t want it, my insides scream out.

They think they can frighten me but I stare death down every day.

They ask me why I do it but no-one has the sense, or the balls, to ask me how it feels.

It feels like falling and flying and being perfectly still, all at once.

It feels like arms around me.

It feels like love.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Fiction, Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s