I feel horrible. Really, truly, pit-of-my-tarnished-soul terrible.
I'm supposed to have put gas in my car and gone to hang with my brother in my hometown. Now, I hate putting gas in my car, especially after dark. I don't know why. It's an illogical fear.
I'm a horrible person. I should be keeping my brother company and I'm too weak to do it. All I have to do put some real clothes on instead of what I fell asleep in yesterday, slip on some real shoes that won't fall off my feet, grab my purse with credit card inside, drive not a mile to the gas station, put gas in my tank, go inside, pay for it, and continue on my merry way to my mother's house.
That's a longer list that I thought, actually...
I used to be able to talk to Jack about everything. I could feel like hell and talk to him and he'd make it all better. He always knew just what to say to shatter my dark grey mood. Or Ruby. She could always smother me with love until my darkness dissipated.
I used to be able to wrap myself in my daddy's trucking jacket, an old one he'd let me have when he got a newer one with his name stitched on it. I would snuggle myself into its thick, warm lining, and I would glow in the promise I knew I carried within me, as my father's daughter. I would bask in the pleasure of being his eldest child, and know that I would be worthy of his wonderful love one day.
Then his love became hurtful and worthless, and so did I.