Not that… they cared.

When was the last time they hugged me?

Never.

No, they had once.

But that was long ago… far long ago.

When was the last time they tucked me into bed?

Never.

No, they had once.

But that was long ago… far long ago.

And so on.

It kept going on like that, the same thoughts rambling on and on in my head as I lay down on the mattress.

When was the last time they did all that for me?

When was the last time they ever showed love for me?

Never.

Not of anything I can remember anymore.

So what happened?

Nothing much, just a little fault line between my family and I, just a little fight I had with them once.

No, it wasn’t that.

They were dead.

Dead.

And just like that.

Gone.

Away.

Gone away forever.

And what could I do about that? Nothing.

I couldn’t do anything.

Not that they… cared.

If they cared, they would have stayed with me.

They wouldn’t have gone away.

They wouldn’t have.

And I wouldn’t be alone, here, alone.

Alone as in alone.

An orphan? A sad little puppy?

No, just alone.

I am alone.

And I can’t trust anyone.

So what happened when I suddenly have dreams about my little finger grasping a big hand?

So what happened when I suddenly have dreams about being rocked back and forth and someone singing nursery rhymes?

They are almost like flashbacks, or a black and white movie playing.

They are almost like memories.

My dreams, I begin to remember them clearly and more clearly.

And I begin to remember my past even clearly and more clearly.

First comes the happy memories… and then the sad ones… and then…

Screaming.

Panicking.

Horror.

Dread.

Hatred.

Blood.

Evil.

A shot.

That shot ringing in my head even when I woke up.

That shot… I remember the bloody pain.

And then… cold dead, and then I was dead.

So, they had not left me, my parents.

They had not deserted me and died.

They had not gone away.

Because the one who had really died… was me.

Me.

I died.

I had gone away.

The one who had died was really me.

I was the one who had gone away.