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I missed doses and then I gulped down whole handfuls.
I started cutting again.Fading scars from a year ago were joined by fresh cuts. Nothing fatal.
Then the pill bottle ran out.
I didn't remember how I survived until my sister's death anniversary.
That day the sky cleared.
I got up early, cleaned myself up as best I could and bought flowers.
But someone had beaten me there.
My mother stood at the grave with piles of offerings.
I placed the flowers and turned to leave when something heavy struck my head and I nearly fell.
The bouquet scattered, petals scattered everywhere.
She screamed at me with bone-deep hatred and hysteria: "Why are you here? You murderer — what right have you to come?"
But then she crumbled into tears: "It should have been you!"
I didn't look back.
I felt dizzy as if I were standing at a cliff.
I forced myself to be calm and walked away.
When I got in the cab I saw a text from the doctor: Why didn't you come?
I stared at her profile picture and typed, hands trembling: — Sorry, something came up.
A reply came almost instantly: — I'll reschedule. When can you come?
I hesitated and didn't send it.
— I'll see you next time.
