Alive, at least.
The following day, I woke up to find Dad by my bedside.
He also hugged me while wearing that guilty expression. Similar to the one Mom had.
I didn’t like it.
Mom and Dad never hugged me that much. Especially Dad.
Then I realized he did that because Mom died in an accident.
It wasn’t an accident—she killed herself by swallowing a bottle of pills.
The note I later found only read, “I’m sorry, Preston. Really sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”
Dad didn’t give me that note, Grandma did, years later when I started acting out—because she hates me for being a failure.
As she handed me that note, she said, “You already killedyour mother. Don’t even think about ruining your father’s life as well.”
Dad still thinks I believe Mom died of alcohol poisoning, which is the story he promoted. He probably doesn’t want me to blame myself for her death.
Or maybe he cares about the family’s image.
Doesn’t matter, though. Because whether it was alcohol poisoning or suicide, I knew I was the reason.
She said she’d take care of it, and her method to do so was taking herself out.
Because she couldn’t help me.
No one can.
Not Mom, not Dad.
Not the doctors.
Not the pills.
Well, the pills can make me drown.
For a while.
My grip loosens from around the bottle of alcohol and it falls by the passenger seat, spilling on the floor.
I know I should reach for it, but my body’s floating, outside, like those free stars on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
Floating and floating and…
Gone.
Like my mom.
Maybe I should go talk to her.
Hey, Mom. Why did you leave me?
You said Dad left me but that you’d never do the same, so why…?
Am I that disgusting?
