Knock on the door.
My parents are too busy drinking to do anything.
So I open it.
It's become like this.
I get prompted to do something, and my body reacts.
I don't think. If I do, I will stop functioning.
It's a woman in a suit.
"Hello, you are Merle Dixon, correct?" she asks.
"Yeah, why?" I say, blocking the doorway with my skinny body.
"Can I talk to you? I'm with Social Services," she says.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"I'd like to speak to you," she says.
"Either stop being vague or leave us the hell alone!" I yell. I slam the door shut and sink against it.
I lie on my bed, wondering what to call it.
It's not sorrow. Sorrow means acceptance.
Grief? Grief is not an angry word. I'm too furious to be grieving.
But I'm not angry at anything. How could I be angry when my sister isn't here?
Heartbreak doesn't even begin to describe it.
Confusion?
Fear?
Sadness?
Shock?
What is it?