Summer

Red hair spilled over a lifeless chest. Hands slightly blue. My sister sobbed into a stiff corpse. I was spinning. Dissociated. Fragmented into a million tiny pieces. My sister's copper hair soaked with tears. From a distance, it appeared as though Mom was just sleeping.
The distinct, sanitized smell of a hospital. Muggy car rides to the emergency room. Vomiting in the front seat, bald and weak. Diagnosis: lymphoma. Bottles of hydrocodone on the bed stand, alprazolam too. Shoplifted makeup and groceries. Roaches in the kitchen.
Lines of cocaine. A crude tattoo on his stomach. I sat on a hot sidewalk one morning, not sure what day it was. Sister drove me to the hospital. Too late for a rape kit. Couldn't identify the perpetrator, couldn't prosecute. Released from a psychiatric hospital, the sun made me nauseous.
Tight chest. Tachycardia induced by panic. Labored breathing. The room is still, nothing is happening. Distorted vision. Sweating, cold palms. Read about emotional dependency. Try to forget how he smelled.