Closure.
They said the cause of death was obvious.
Your 13 year old fashioned a noose and hung himself with your old guitar amp from high school and the ceiling fan.
The drop wasn’t far enough to break his neck, so unfortunately it wasn’t as quick and painless as he wanted it.
Everything after that is hard to remember. That day was a hard one, and you’re honestly glad you can’t remember much from it.
It’s been a few years and you still hurt every day from it. A gaping wound that never closed, but instead got wider every day.
Everything in your life took a turn for the worst after that. You began drinking, heavily, every waking moment after that. Your wife got sick of the drinking, she felt like she could never move on from what happened if she stayed with you. You began to blame yourself for more and more tragedy’s. Luke’s suicide? It had to be your fault.
Drink.
Ash leaving you? Of course it was your fault.
Drink.
Your job getting sick of you showing up either late and hungover, or late and drunk? Your fault, obviously.
So you drank.
And you drank until you lost even more than you lost last drink. And then you drank and lost more.
It was a cycle you were aware of but never planned on changing. Why would you? You couldn’t ever gain back what you lost and what you lost was your only reason for living.
Your family, your job, your security, your bullshit american dream.
It was in the toilet with your stomach acid and sweat.
Your elderly mother, god love her, forced you to see a doctor for your mental health. He didn’t do shit besides prescribe you Xanax.
“It’ll help with the shakes and the anxiety. Pop one or two a day, you’ll be fine. Things will look up. You can leave through the nurses station, they’ll direct you to the pharmacy and they’ll run your insurance. Have a nice day, Bo.” Was really all he said.
That helped as much as you could imagine.
Not only are you an alcoholic now, but a drug addict too.
You spend every day from then on not only drunk, but blacked out and aggressive.
You develop a criminal record, and at one point, you’re spending more time in jail than you do at home.
You eventually decide enough is enough one lonely night on a park bench. You threw up your dinner of garbage scraps, two bars of Xanax and two 32’s of Olde English and cried. You cried and cried and decided you would change.
You couldn’t gain back what you lost. You’d always miss it, and it may always hurt.
But the only thing hurting you more than your past was yourself.
You get up, and begin stumbling home.
You just about make it out of the park when you hear a soft crying.
Not a sob, or a fresh new wound being torn open, but a dull, defeated cry. A cry you’ve belt out many times before. One that was your lullaby for years.
You look around, thinking perhaps a child was lost from their mother.
You turn on your phone flash light, and stumble around the park, looking for the child.
“Hey hic kid! Ya there? I hic I won’t hurt buuuuuuuurp hurt ya!” You garbled out in your stupor.
You finally pinpoint the sound coming from a nearby bush.
You walk like a zombie over to it, move it’s branches and leaves and see a mother.
A fluffy mother.
A pink earthy with a sky blue mane.
She’s holding one foal, a cream colored filly with a chocolate brown mane.
They’re both crying softly, nuzzled up to each other, shivering from the cold and probably fear.
“Hey there hic guys! Everything okay?” You slurred.
She didn’t seem to really even care that you were there.
She just kept nuzzling and holding her crying filly, softly whispering:
“Mummah wub wastest babbeh.”
You didn’t know much about fluffies, but you could see enough what was going on.
“Hey cmon. Come. Come stay with good ole bo.” You said, lifting your hand into the bush.
“Nyu daddeh?” She snapped her eyes to meet yours. Finally catching her attention.
“Hahaha burp sure I guess! Cmon now it’s cold!”
“Nyu daddeh gib housie fo mummah an wastest babbeh? An huggies an wub to?”
“Sure thing! Let’s get on out and hurl get!” You coughed out.
You carried the mother, who was carrying her baby.
You were drunk, very, so you didn’t question the decision. You saw a grieving parent. Something you’ve done more than your fair share of.
You make it home, and you don’t really have anything prepared for a fluffy. You never planned on getting one.
You did use to have a little dog though, so you cleared out some space in a closet, put down a cheap doggy bed and some blankets, and put a piece of cardboard and some newspaper down in the corner.
“You know how to shit and piss right?”
“Uh fwuffy nu knu nyu daddeh? Fwuffy knu how make good poopies in wittahbawks!”
“Great! burp this is your litter box then! Go there or… I dunno, I’ll spank ya or sum.”
“Otay nyu daddeh. Fank ou fo nyu nestie. Suuuuuu wawmies.” Cooed the fluffy.
“You little fluff balls got names?” You hiccuped while loosing your balance. Its time for bed soon, rather you want it to be or not.
“Nu nyu daddeh. Fwuffy am jus fwuffy an babbeh am jus babbeh. Nebah hab daddeh befow.” Sighed the mother, kneading the doggy bed with her last foal resting on her back.”
“Well tomorrow you get names.” You said, losing more balance.
The fluffy may have tried talking to you after that, but you don’t remember.
You woke up in your bed with all your clothes on. It smelled like shit and piss, and you began to think to yourself
“Again? Really?” Thinking it was you. But upon standing up, you see in your open closet door a fluffy with her foal snuggled up on a dog bed, and shit stained newspaper all over the back of your closet.
It all came back to you.
What the fuck were you thinking?
God, your head is pounding. You’ve been awake not 5 minutes and you’re already getting the shakes again.
How the fuck are you going to take care of these things?
You can’t. You can’t. You just can’t.
You pick it up, gently as possible. You don’t want to disturb it, and deal with some bullshit argument.
You make it halfway out your room, when you hear
“Nyu daddeh? Tu sweepies fo upsies”
“I’m not your new dad.” You say, continuing your way out.
“Whu yu mean daddeh?”
“I mean I’m not your fucking dad. You and your baby are leaving my house. Sorry.” You say, making it out to the front porch.
You set the mother and her foal down on the porch and begin to walk back inside.
“Wait nyu daddeh! Pweese! Fwuffy am gud fwuffy! Gib huggies an wub! Hab gud babbeh tu! Am wastest babbeh! Nee gud daddeh an housie!” Pleaded the mother.
“No. Tough shit. Sorry, kid.”
“Buh-Buh-Buh!” Stuttered the mother, getting worked up.
“No means no. Now get the fuck off my porch before I punt you off.”
“Daddeh! Woowkies! Wiww make dancies foh daddeh! Bestest dancies!” The mother shot up on her hind legs, causing her foal to slide off her back.
She began chirping in distress, but her mother didn’t notice.
She kept dancing, trying to get your attention.
She didn’t hear the chirps, the cry, the crunch, or even the first words of her stomped on foal screeching
“Mummah! chirp chirp hurties!”
It laid there, and in its last final moments, felt nothing but pain, lightheadedness, and betrayal, thinking it’s mother hurting her was her fault.
“Watch our you stupid bitch! You’re killing your baby!” You shouted at the dumb mother, dancing away, singing a bullshit song
“Pweese gib mummah housie! Am bestest mummah tu wastest Babbeh! Wiww be bestest fwuffy fo bestest daddeh!” She sang, off key.
“YOUR FOAL IS DYING YOU CUNT!”
“Wai daddeh sai meanie wowds- BABBEH!” She shrieked, seeing her broken child, mangled and twitching on the porch.
“Chirp wai chirp mummah nu wub babbeh? Am cough bad Babbeh? Wowstest babbeh?” Were the foals last words.
“Babbeh?” The mother stared at her dead foal.
She had none left.
She couldn’t understand why.
“It happens, bitch.” You said, kicking the dumb cunt in the ribs.
With a crack, she went flying into your front yard. She broke her back left leg and jaw on impact.
She never got closure.
Neither did you.
You committed suicide 3 hours later, after being to afraid to continue drinking or too afraid to face life without it.
The mother made it 15 feet out of your yard before 2 teenage boys threw rocks at her until she died.
Sometimes life just sucks and then it’s over.