Written in the car, posted at McDonalds. Classiness, right here

We’re driving through some kind of farm country now. Lots of, like, rolling fields and shit. Cows and horses and sheep and barns, you know. I kind of don’t want to write this but I feel like I should? I don’t know, I already feel like I’m writing some kind of essay about “feelings” already, and it doesn’t help that I’m typing this in MS Word because of lack of wifi. But I promise, there won’t be any flower metaphors. Or season metaphors. Or any metaphors at all.

He died. He didn’t reach “the winter of his life” or any of that shit. I mean, he didn’t have a chance.

I guess it would be more accurate to say that he was killed.

I never saw his body in the woods, actually. When I saw him at the funeral home, he was all fixed up, face clean, black suit. I'm pretty sure they even put some makeup on him, trying to make him look real alive, but his skin looked like wax and the veins of his hands stood out bright red.  I never saw it, but I heard about it. I  was the one who found the blood spots on the carpet, leading out the front door. 

Someone killed my dad. Someone dragged him into the woods and chopped his heart out and left him there. I have good hearing (despite what people are always telling me about listening to music turned up loud with headphones) and the ladies at the funeral home weren't even subtle about whispering. The police clomped in and out of our house for days but never even took his body. 

Sometimes I think he might've died anyways. He'd been sick for a while. At first it hadn't been that bad. He'd been tired, and run a fever on and off. A couple of times he'd get nosebleeds, and once while we were eating dinner he forgot everything he'd done that day, and my mom and me had filled him in.  Then he started coughing up blood, vomiting blood. I'd always hear him and my mom whispering at night, hear him choking across the hall. He's start to ramble, saying things that made no sense. He'd forget whole weeks, and the whites of his eyes turned bright red. He refused to see a doctor, he refused to even leave the house. My mom wouldn't leave either. They'd lock themselves in their room for hours, and I'd hear my dad muttering the whole time. 

And then one morning I woke up to my mom screaming. 

God, I just want this all to be over. I want my mom to stop acting like a psycho. I want to just go somewhere and forget about all this shit and start over. I hope my mom's friend can help her stop being so fucking paranoid. She was running a fever the night before we left. Sweat had been dripping off her face as she'd insisted she was cold. 

...I swear to god I will never complain about high school again.