I want to rant, I do, I want to scream and shout and get angry about how fucked up it all is.
Because it's all very fucked up. And these people, whoever-the-fuck they are, are not sane, they're not rational (to any recognizable degree), hell I'd venture to say they're not even human. Just mindless, brainless robots conditioned to kill others (and themselves) on command.
I want to tell you how scared I am about going back. To be inside that madness again. I want to tell you how scared I am that it'll take yet more away from me than it already has. I want to tell you how much it's eating me up inside.
But I can't.
I have no words.
I have no words to describe the pain I feel when I see the life I always took for granted lying around me like a shattered house of cards. And I don't know how to begin to describe the chaos that subsumes me when I think of home-that-was, home-that-will-never-be-again.
August 4th, 2008, my father was killed by an unknown assailant who broke into his office, demanded money and even as my father tried to give it to him he shot and ran. The bullet went through three internal organs (a diagonal across this body, the doctor later told us) and even though they tried to save him, there was no way. And with his death died my hopes, my dreams,, my desires, my aspirations, my ambitions, my life as I knew it.
The truth is, on August 4th 2008, I died too. We all did. Except we didn't die a blissful death of eternal sleep. We died a waking kind of death where every single sensation screams for mercy that it never gets. The kind of death where you're forced to face the reality of growing decay every single day. A slow, tortuous death where more and more of you becomes numb and insensible and all feelings recede into gradual oblivion.
People keep asking me why I can't sleep. I wish I could tell them what my real fear is. I'm afraid, because when I remove all idle distractions that dominate my life and lay down in bed, the only image that I can see is my father's face when I saw him last. And my fingers feel cold, as cold as they felt when I stroked his cheek for the last time. And all I can hear is my mother's cries when she found out. I remember, to the word, what she said. I remember, in minute-by-minute detail, the one day I am never going to forget for the rest of my life. And every single night, save a few, just before I sleep this is what I see, this is what I hear, this is what I feel. So I try not to sleep until I'm so tired my body aches. Until my mind is too numb to think. Until there is no way that the torture will last more than a few minutes.
And when I do sleep, I'm still scared. I'm scared I'll dream. And I'm not scared of nightmares. Those I can handle. I'm scared of the good dreams. The dreams where I see him, where he smiles at me, where I can hear his voice and I remember things past. And then I wake up, and I have to face the reality. That he's gone. That he will never be there for me again. And I hurt. So much. So very, very much.
And all I want when I go to bed, is what I used to do, as a child, every single time I had a nightmare. I want to run into my parents bed, snuggle up to my fathers side (because I've always been daddy's girl) and lie down next to him with my head on his chest directly above his heart (so that I can count the heartbeats the way other people may count sheep). And I want to feel his arms around me. I want to feel safe. So safe, that I can, finally, go to sleep.