I still blame you.

I don’t remember much about that morning, because I was only six years old. I do remember that the lady policewoman gave me a lollipop, an orange flavoured one, to distract me from the fact that mother couldn’t stop crying. 

It’s been twenty years now and I still can’t stand the taste of orange anything anymore, because that was the last day I remember her smiling. I know I shouldn’t blame you, that you were ill, which is what my sister tells me every time she sees that I’m getting angry, but I do. For both the fact that I hate anything flavoured orange, and for taking the best part of my mother away when you left.  I’m sure that when you bought the rope, you didn’t think that grief could last forever. I’m sure that when you left her side in the dead of the night, the chemical imbalance or whatever it is, made you shortsighted. You couldn’t foresee all the times my sister would have to cook for me, to take me to school, because mother was still in bed. But whilst in theory, I know and am sure of all that, I still blame you. 

And if in the letter I also blame you, then nobody can feel guilty when they eventually find my body…can they?

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Some darker themes here. Part of the ‘write what scares you’ tip! (Which is a really good tip…)

Thanks for stopping by 🙂
Ro x

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