I remember the day you died. The chaos. Idle chatter. Heavy grief. Your door closed everything familiar to me; that wide and bright living room with its overused velvet couch. The room just behind that wall, the patio to the left. The food stains on the ugly gray carpet. The boxy television set in the nook to the left. Your altar to my right, where you laid out food for your Gods so they would bless you, except they gifted you with sadness and pain and memory loss. Death had wrapped its silence around me like a warm silken cloak and kept me there. I was so young, who was I to know how deep this blood flowed, spreading through me like ink. I stood there and watched the world turn and disappear, my vision blurred to whiteness. Voices called to me, telling me I had to get better grades or stop being so angry or cut the weirdness out. They told me to bend into the folds of convention, to become one with others, to try and be artificially happy. And I listened to them, I took their word and walked through their doors and came out with nothing they promised me. Here I am, remembering the day you died. I feel nauseous.

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