After what felt like forever, the day finally came to lay the old man to rest. The sky was heavy and gray, almost like it had been holding its breath in anticipation of this moment, as if the world itself were exhausted from pretending that his death would make any difference. My mother cried the entire time, her body trembling, her shoulders shaking, hiccupping through the sobs. She carried her grief like it was armor, fragile and raw, trying to shield herself from the world—but mostly trying to shield herself from me. Or maybe from the truth of him being gone.
I wasn't crying. I couldn't. My chest felt hollow, my stomach knotted with anger, and my hands were rigid on the wheels of my chair. Anger pulsed through me like fire in a frozen body, and I didn't know if it was at him, at her, or at the universe that had delivered this final insult: burying him on my birthday. The audacity of it! The day that should have been mine, the only day I had any claim to a shred of happiness, was tainted. The fact that Mama hadn't remembered—or had, and decided not to care—cut deeper than the coffin itself.
People shuffled up and down the platform where his body rested, giving speeches that were meant to honor him, to celebrate his life. "A devoted father… a hardworking man… a kind soul…" they said, their words floating in the air like meaningless smoke. Kind soul? The man spent his life drinking, sleeping, and arguing with my mother, and now they wanted me to mourn the generosity he never showed me, never showed anyone. I sat there, my hands gripping the wheels of my chair, jaw tight, staring at him like he had never been anything but an obstacle, a shadow over my life.
The speeches dragged on, a slow, painful parade of false sentiment. Each word felt like a finger pointing at me, reminding me that I had been broken, trapped, silenced, deaf, mute, and confined to a body that had betrayed me—all because of him. All because of what he did—or didn't do. My mind replayed that day five years ago over and over: the music, the car, the pavement, the hospital, the tubes, the doctors' lies. And now here he was, gone, and yet still managing to ruin what little joy I had left.
Finally, the speeches ended. The endless words of praise evaporated into the hot, heavy air. We were escorted to the cemetery, a march of grief that felt like punishment. I tried to look away, tried to pretend that the earth swallowing him would make everything better. It didn't. The dirt slid over the coffin like a final, mocking curtain closing on a play I had no part in. And yet, a strange part of me felt relief—not for him, not for what he had done, but for the weight of his presence being lifted from the house, from Mama, from me.
Back home, the air smelled of burnt candles, stale flowers, and despair. The house was quieter than usual, but that quiet was heavy, oppressive. My mother wheeled me into the entrance and then… left. Just like that. Walked away to her room without a word, leaving me alone at the doorway. I sat there, hands rigid on my wheels, staring at the floor, trying to understand her absence. Did she not care? Was she too broken to deal with me, too consumed by her own grief? Or had she simply forgotten I existed? The questions burned, sharp and relentless.
I pushed myself to my room, every movement a reminder of my body's betrayal. The ground floor felt like a mercy, at least—I didn't have to fight stairs today—but even so, the journey felt endless. I collapsed onto my bed, exhausted, sweat and tears mingling on my skin. That night, the nightmares came heavier than usual. The accident, the hospital, Dad's death—they all collided in a chaotic loop behind my closed eyelids. Sleep didn't bring relief; it only brought more of the same.
The next morning, I woke expecting some acknowledgment, some comfort from my mother. Maybe she would come to help me out of bed, maybe she would offer a word of love, or at least presence. But she didn't. The silence hit first, sharp and cruel. I had to maneuver my body alone to the kitchen. Each push felt like wading through molasses, each breath sharp with frustration.
When I finally arrived, the kitchen told me everything I needed to know. Dirty utensils from breakfast scattered across the counter. Plates unwashed. And nothing for me. Not a single thought, a single bite prepared, a single sign of care. The sting of neglect sank deep into my chest. My hands shook, and my stomach turned cold with betrayal. Heartbroken. Angry. Desperate.
The knife caught my eye. My fingers brushed it. A flash of dark, sharp thoughts ran through me—thoughts I had spent five years rehearsing in my mind, waiting for the right moment, the right trigger. It wasn't about wanting to die for the sake of pain. It was about taking control in a world that had consistently