i’ve always thought that death was a lot like christmas, though it was the old fake tree in the corner that reminded me of the dreadful holiday now.
both are times for family and friends, times for roses and bad punch and hugs, times for people to show up for something they would rather have slept through…
i wonder how many people would come to my funeral – probably a lot.
now i sound conceited even in my own mind, but i’m not. there’s a logical reason i can expect a lot of people at my funeral even is i’m not old enough to have decades of friends, i don’t a family of my own, and i wasn’t that nice to the kids at my school.
see, everyone is interested in murder cases.
they’d shake my stepfather’s hand and squeeze my mother into a hug. play with my little half- sister and brother, talking about how sad it was that they’d never understand what had happened to me until all the memories of me had faded.
my stepdad would be patient with all the questions – well, i guess he might not be able to be there, he could be a suspect for my murder after all. wasn’t it always the stepparent? or that creepy neighbor?
hm. i don’t know, i never watched that much t.v.
i look up at the dirt-covered ceiling of my father’s basement. i am really getting uncomfortable lying the bottom of a fucking wire dog cage. i’m sixteen, i’ve been called a bitch before, but this is taking the term a bit too literally, daddy dearest.
stupid of me, right? looking him up on my old birth certificate. though, in all honesty, it had begun with that damn science project. who would have figured that punnett squares would lead me to my death? i hope that mr. granger gets investigated in my murder case – him and his stupid family-tree-punnett-square project are what led me to this cage and subsequently my murder in the basement of my fathers house, however indirectly.
like my dear ol’ dad did, apparently. i should have asked his profession over the phone.
‘meet me for coffee’ my ass. i knew as soon as he suggested we go get something to eat that he had a different agenda. unfortunately, genes worked against me because my blue eyes exactly matched his and my hair was his shade of ebony.
so when i protested, other customers in the coffee shop bought the ‘i’m sorry, she’s just angry that i’ve grounded her’ excuse my father dished out coupled with an embarrassed look.
i should have screamed my name and his as i left the coffee shop. possibly his address (was this even his house?). maybe then he would have at least killed me in the car.
god, what the hell kind of murder was this? ‘wait here while i go and prepare the concoction,’ he’d said. like i had a choice, handcuffed and locked in this tiny dog cage.
‘yes sir,’ i had replied sarcastically. ‘good luck on preparing that with which you plan on murdering me!’
it’s crazy how uncaring i am about this whole ordeal. you’d think i would be rattling the cage, trying to escape with all my might. but i’m not. really, i just don’t see any use in it. the padlock looked pretty sturdy to me
maybe i’m just happy he hadn’t raped me.
seriously, what was my mother thinking, having sex with him?
holy shit, i’m going to die a virgin.
i find it funny that this upsets me more than the whole dying part.
‘bethany, it’s ready!’ he announces as he clamors down the stairs. i don’t look away from the ceiling. ‘any last words?’
i turn my head from the ceiling as he tries to look at me through the chicken-wire cage and i see that christmas tree again.
‘no? alright then.’ i feel the needle as he plunges it through my jeans and into my thigh.
‘i prefer beth,’ i tell him firmly as the drugs cloud my mind. i feel the needle leave only by the release of pressure.
he flips the lights on then, and with my newly blurred vision, it looks like the lamps have decorated that dusty old tree.
christmas in september.
[2/6/10]
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