Starving Eddie.

The day I wasn't good enough

[3 Years Ago]

I didn't want to go to the funeral. I didn't, I couldn't. My dad is screaming at me, crying, begging. He doesn't understand why I wouldn't want to go to my own mother's funeral. Why I wouldn't want to say goodbye.

I just can't face having to see her again. Not in the words of her friends, not in the photos. At least there is no chance of me seeing the body. It's closed casket, they do that when the body is too mutilated to be seen. And that tends to happen to people who walk onto a 3-lane freeway in the path of an oncoming truck.

Actually, It wouldn't matter if I saw her body at the funeral or not. I was there, I watched as the truck hit her, and later as the ambulance came. I can still see it. It's the sort of image that sticks around.

In the end, my dad gave up. He left in tears, his voice raw from every word of abuse he spat at me. I deserve it, I deserve every word of it. I stand up, a little unsteady on my feet, and watch him go from the apartment window. I chip the paint around the edges with my fingernails, letting the shards dig into the supple skin of the tips. 

I deserve it.

It was my mum and I in the car that night. It was me that broke her again that night, sick of all her shit, sick of her dead stares and her silent replies. She'd forgotten to pick me up from school, only turning up 2 hours later when I had already trekked half way of the 15 kilometre walk home. I was furious, and when she stopped the car at the side of the road, I didn't realise what she was doing.

'What the hell?' I remember scoffing. 'You going to chuck me out into the bush huh? Let the ants eat me alive?'

She smiled at me, eerily calm. 'Don't worry, Emma. I'm going to make it better.'

I flinch violently at the memory, and the wood beneath the paint stabs into my flesh. I watch the blood for a moment, wondering if I'm going to cry. But I don't. I didn't cry when I saw it, or when I sat in the back of the ambulance, or with the doctor, or anytime later. I won't let myself cry. Because if I break down I'm not sure I can get myself back together.

If I was better, she would still be alive. If I didn't get angry. If I understood what she was doing. If I had helped her. If I was just fast enough to stop her.

I throw a glance over to my trainers, tossed in a corner amongst the mess. I never run, ever. I hate it, the burn in my chest and in my legs. It was punishment to me. But maybe that's what I need. 

'Punishment.' I mutter under my breath as I grab the shoes. 

By the time the soles of my shoes are on the pavement, the sun's burnt out the sky and the street lights are on. No one is out, and I know my dad won't be back for hours. 

By the time I get back, my legs are jelly, lungs raw and blissfully exhausted. It's pitch black now, and as I slam the door behind me, I collapse right there in the hallway of the apartment.

I sleep the night for the first time since she died.