On The Lost Value Of Hug, Homicide And Humanity

0. All you and I here refer to me. Don’t get insulted.

1. I’m sittin’ on the same spot I was shrinkin’ a year ago. 23 hours after his dad texted me. I ran out of the room. Yellin’ at my friend. Takin’ her out with me. Thinkin’ “she’s smart. She’ll fix it.” Tryin’ to cry. But mostly screamin’. An ugly continuous one. Then I called his dad. Hurtin’ a mournin’ man with crazy questions. Like an imbecile: “are you lyin’? Are you sure?” -in my defense, it seemed a bad joke. It seemed a big lie.
Then it rained like crazy. It was 5 in the morning. Between 10 and 5 is blur. My only left weapon. Oblivion.
Even in those hot moments of shock and other bullsh*ts, it was just hatred and anger. Of every single livin’ soul. Some more, of course. And now, I know why. I was no human. I didn’t even know what that means. Since a long time before a year ago. Even bein’ veggie didn’t help much. A human can’t be so full of hatred. I assure you. A human can’t be so angry.
Now? Now I swear more. I don’t forgive strangers. I’m goin’ to take boxin’ class.

2. I wrote a hundred suicide notes. Mostly for the poor characters in my stories. Isolated and devastated people. Havin’ nothing but a magnificent death. I believed in that. You know. They never killed anyone. On purpose, at least. When JJ found out his mom cheated on his dad, he went to his room and slit his throat. With his dad’s pocket knife. Or Mary. That miserable deaf who got pregnant in a small village around Newcastle in 1656. They never fought. Never punched and stabbed. Never shot those cockroaches around them. “It’s been chasin’ a wild goose. Life was chasin’ a god damned wild goose.” They would write that in their last moments.
Now? Now I’m a buff of Alex Pichushkin. Checkin’ his pictures in courts. Hailin’ him. Impulsive and strong. I’m so jealous.

3. Bein’ a woman is hard. Don’t get sick of hearin’ this complain so many times. It really is. You know, I never thought of givin’ him a hug. When he needed it most. I didn’t call him. Didn’t text him. He was a HE after all. I’m not a b**ch. My babe wouldn’t approve. My washedout-brain wouldn’t digest. My A-hole society wouldn’t understand. My shameful friend wouldn’t want. Not that it’s my excuse for what happened. For what I did and I didn’t. But I’m sure I wouldn’t be writin’ a self-redemption post right now, if I were a man. If I hugged him once.
He’s gone. When you don’t believe in a damn thing, when there’s nothing out there after you drop dead, it hurts most. You think of so many things you could’ve done. That mother-f**kin’ hug.
Now? Now after a year, all those sorrows disappear. It’s just you and that hug. That mother-f**kin’ hug which could save him. Or not. But it would save you, you stupid selfish girl.

P.S.: I’m sorry.

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