Dear Mom,

Chapter 3

Dear Mom,

I think I am having a change of heart about Dad Dave. He invited me and Yasmine to dinner at his house. His business guests were there too. He didn't even tell me and Yasmine to verify with the guests we have no real relations. He introduced me as his daughter, his real, live, kicking, breathing daughter. Not some foster kid he decided to adopt for publicity. He didn't even tell me not to talk this time. He actually encouraged me to speak to his guests. He laughed with me. He made me laugh, involuntarily of course. It was actually pleasant. I didn't want to rip my hair out this time. Honestly, I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay. He offered for me to spend the night, but I remembered that he left me when I was a baby. I had to remind myself who he was who he is. Yasmine begged me with her eyes not to say we could or would stay the night anyway, and I do not want her to be uncomfortable. When me and Yasmine got home, Dave called us to check on us, making sure we were okay. I think he is starting to warm up to us, or trying to build a good reputation. Either way, I am glad I didn't have to make dinner. I was long past having ideas about what to make. I was down to Roman Noodles and hot dogs. Maybe I should letting Yasmine cook instead....

Dear Mom,

I have to tell your something. I am not very good at making your pies. I remember these really good pies you used to make when you were having a good day and those were the only things me and Pan could ever agree about, not telling you when we ate your pie without permission. We used to go to the kitchen at one in the morning and binge on your pie until it was half gone. We would never tell who did it because we would always both do it. It was the only time me and Pan could get along without people around. I really want to know how to make that pie. I have been trying to make it for two weeks. It is impossible. Do you put any special ingredients in it? Is there vanilla extract? How many cups of sugar do you put in your pies. I really need to know. I know you are dead and all but it would be cool if I magically got the pie recipe. I remember watching you make them. I would never pay attention to the ingredients because I was too busy wanting to eat it so bad.

Dear Mom,

I had a scary nightmare. I had a dream that Pan had given me your pie but he had poisoned it. He had gained my trust and killed me. It didn't end there though. I was conscience in my death so everything he did and said I felt and heard. First, he had kicked me to make sure I was really dead. Then he carved his initials in my face. I know it was a dream, but it was extremely painful. I tried to scream. I tried to run. I tried to do anything a normal person would do if you were carving your name into their head but I could not. I had to sit there and feel it. I could not do anything about it. I hate that feeling with a passion. Not having any control over anything and just being helpless? worse feeling ever. Then while I was dead (remember, this is all a dream) a number of people came out the shadows. Slim was there Yasmine, Dad, Sam, Joey, Kendall and her cousins. Everyone I have ever trusted with anything was there. You were not there. There were laughing at me and pointing at my dead body. Joey gave Pan a high five. Then they all started naming things I deserved being dead for,

"That is what you get for not telling me you saw my sister get killed,"

"That is what you get for leaving me outside the hotel room in California,"

"That is what you get for pushing me off a cliff". . . You get the point. It was a serious nightmare for me. I could not stop crying when I woke up. I had never had a dream as bad as that one. Dying by the hands of Pan was not even the worst part. Joey, Pan, and my dad (hmmm.. maybe not Pan) telling me about bad things I have done to them was the worst part. I could not handle it. I could not go back to sleep for the rest of the night. It was terrible. I could not sleep if you gave me a bottle of Nyquil and told me to drink 'til my heart's content. I would have drunk the whole bottle and still stared at the ceiling in the dark. I ended up sneaking out the house and going to the cemetery. I know, weird place to go at four in the morning but whatever. I went to go see Sam. I apologized for what happened to her. I told her about my nightmare and how I should have told her mom what really happened. Her mom deserves it. She has never been anything but pleasant to me. She has never said an ill word to me except that one time I broke her side window with a big rock. She could not afford to replace it so it made it easier for people to steal from her. Just finish breaking the glass and hop right in her house. She made me fix the window myself with duct tape and some weird other thing I still do not recognize. I deserved for her to yell at me though. I would not like some kid to break my window while I can not pay for it. I would be angry. There are some colorful outcomes to that situation depending who's glass you break. Some people would chase me with a bat or something, she just had me fix it. That was actually nice of her. She was being kind. I like her none the less for her having me fix her window. I did break it. THere was one time though, she made me truly angry. She had sent Sam to get a switch from the tree outside for something she didn't even do. You know, the kid gets the branch from the tree and their parents beat them with it. I do not remember you ever beating me. You didn't have to, everyday with you was a punishment. I had no food to eat. I had a house where two thirds of my household were drug addicts, and abusive, and killers, and frauds, and.... You get the point right? I hope so. I would hate to have to explain to someone every bad detail about our house. Especially you. You do not deserve to hear my side of the story. You do not even deserve to know my experience living with crazy people. You do not deserve to know anything I do not want to tell you. Even some of my memories I express to you in my writing you do not even deserve to know about in your grave. I know you probably do not remember me eating out the trash, and you do not deserve to, but you were there. You were just too busy getting high and self destructive to realize the world around you was crumbling down, or maybe you already knew that. Is that not why people get high? To escape the world around them. To go somewhere pleasant (or what they think is pleasant) I never understood getting high. I would rather NOT have that moment of calm so I do not have to watch the storm come. I would rather not wish I had something good for only a moment. I would not want that feeling. Knowing what I could have and still not have it for more than a few minutes, even half an hour. I would rather have bliss after misery than the other way around. It just sounds better. Rainbow comes after a thunderstorm, not before it. I just think I would rather try my best to get out of a bad situation, and then relax. I would not do what you did. You just took long drug breaks and bounced right back into your pitiful life. You never tried to move to a better neighborhood, or get a job, or just try to turn our house into a home. If you are going to be high, at least do something productive okay? Not that you can, since you are dead and all. How does it feel to be dead? What did you do when you got to the other side? Did you freak out? I would. One minute you are just in a hospital bed and the next, you are in a place you never seen before. It must be weird. A lot of people are scared of death itself, but I am scared of HOW I die. I do not want to be the one who gets eaten by wolves or gets shot after robbing a store. That is the last mark you leave on the world, how you left it. I do not want someone going "Oh you know Everest? She died drunk driving," I would hate that. I would not mind "Oh you know Everest? Can you believed she died protecting that little girl!?" That sounds much better. I would not like a death like yours though. You didn't get a chance for a good death. Yes you died in a comfortable bed with people around you but (a) three of them were murders (b) one of the murders was a drug dealer (c) one of them killed your one and only son. Your death must not seem that great when I say it like that huh. Well, it is not all that great. It was miserable and just horrible. All you could say was how you want Pan, your (and I quote) "Sun and Moon. Your angel from heaven," yeah right. If the devil was an angel. Even the devil is probably like "Pan you did WHAT on Earth?" Normal kids do not kill nine year olds when they are barely in their teens. Frankly, it is not normal. Sorry to bust your bubble (sorry not sorry). Just being honest