text: “You’re completely worthless. You don’t do shit around his house. All you do is eat my food, and cost me money. I can’t wait till your gone.” When my Dad first started speaking to me like that, it was jarring to say the least. It was about a month after the funeral, and I spent the night sleeping in the backyard after crying myself to sleep. The death of my Mom opened up the dam on all the repressed anger that he had been holding inside for the first 10 years of my life. But by this point, 3 years later, I took it all in stride. What else could I really do? I more often than not tried to avoid confrontation as a kid. It’s not that I didn’t have witty comebacks, or the physical ability to fight for myself. It just never seemed worth the effort. “Your sister was never this worthless. She worked from the day she turned 15. She did shit around here. She’s a good kid. Not like you!” He was standing at the doorway to my room, while I layed on my bed reading a library book. I don’t remember what I did to set him off that day, assuming I did anything at all. I was getting tired of hearing all of this however. I sat up, and stuck a torn slip of paper into my book to mark my place. I spun my legs off the side of my bed, and I rested my forearms on my knees as I leaned forward. I was done with this for today. “If you like her so much better than me, and think she is so much better than me, why did she move out the second she turned 18.” I spat out, staring down at the aged, stained blue carpet of my room. He laughed; a light, airy note from him which was in stark contrast to his usual deep rumble of slurred words. “She married Will. He’s a real man! A man who can take care of his wife! You should wish you could even be a quarter of what he is!” I felt my blood beginning to boil finally. “Yeah, he’s a real swell guy. Can’t even keep the lights or water on in his house. A real fucking model man, ain’t he.” “You watch your mouth you little shit! Or I’ll throw you out on the curb like the fucking garbage you are!” He screamed at me in retort. He was bad enough sober, but when he began drinking and taking his “pain meds”, he really became a monster. The distinct slur in his words told me that no matter what happened today, this was not going to end well. “Fine, throw me out. Or better yet, I’ll just kill myself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I shouted back, rising to my feet and turning to face him. Even at 13, I was a few inches taller than him, and had the build of a rhino. I knew if it came to blows, I could take him. That meant the police would come, however. He backed up slightly from my doorway, eyeing my carefully. “Yeah. I would. It’s your fault you know. She’s dead because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.” he growled at me, his fists balling up and his face turning red. That was the final straw. I stormed forward, pushing into his chest with enough force to send him stumbling backwards several feet. I stormed out the back door, slamming the screen behind me. In the furthest point of the backyard was an old, gnarled apricot tree. I kept the area beneath free of pits and fallen fruit, and would sit under it to help gather my thoughts and cool down. It had the added benefit that my dad never bothered me, because he never went into the backyard. I guess he assumed if he never looked at it, it would magically take care of itself. I mowed it with an old manual mower my grandfather had left, and raked up the dead fruit every week to keep the odor and pests down. I flopped down beneath the old giant. Clenching my eyes shut hard to hold back the tears, my mind rewound the conversation over and over in my head. Killing myself. Sure, why not. My sister was a much better child than me. I guess so, she was married with a house and a husband. I killed my Mom. Yeah, I guess I did. My Mom had discovered the lumps in her breasts not long after she discovered she was pregnant with me. The doctor recommended an abortion so she could begin chemotherapy right away. She chose to carry me to term, and wait another 3 years so she could properly breastfeed me. By the time she began treatment, it was too late. She tried. She tried very hard, for several years. But it was too late. A few tears finally broke through, and I rose my gaze upwards. A low hanging branch was above me, thick and strong. I could nail my belt to it, and use it to hang myself. No one would discover it until the smell started. I could finally get away from everything. Maybe have a fresh start, provided reincarnation was the true end game. It was as these thoughts danced in my head, that I heard a commotion in the yard next to mine. The scrape of plastic patio furniture against concrete. A conversation in spanish. Laughter. I blinked back the tears, and wiped my face. Someone had moved into the house next door? When did that happen? I hoisted myself to my feet, walked up to the rusted chain link fence, and was greeted by two boys. One younger than me, and one about my age, both sitting in the plastic furniture I’d heard a few moments before.