The Pink Bag

Well, since I couldn't sleep, I decided to go get the pink bag out of my trunk that my mom gave me in Florida. I knew there was a letter from Bethany in there, but I didn't know what else. The first thing I pulled out was the sheet music from jr. high that I really really loved that I've been looking for forever. I've bought books of sheet music trying to find it. Now I have it again, of course, with the letter from Bethany.

Now, I'd told my mom to read me the letter on the phone, but she did not read me the whole thing. Fine, fine, fine, fine. Aint that just like everything surrounding Bethany since her death? No one ever tells me the whole story at once. I suppose that's why I went to get the pink bag tonight. My mind had wandered to Robert Fucktard Robbins, and I remembered him boldface lying on Montel, acting like he never intended to kill Bethany until that moment, when really, he'd planned it months in advance on his computer. Pure genius.

And I think Bethany is the reason it took me so long to admit to being atheist. I knew it much longer, but to say it would mean negating ever seeing her again. Would negate the possibility that life isn't totally unfair and stupid. A nineteen-old-girl, days away from twenty, a beauty queen. My beanbag, blanket friend.

She'd be closer to 30 than me now. She'd be 29 in November. We felt so old, like all of life depended on what we did right then, but we were just children playing make-believe and dreaming of better lives.

I used to secretly make fun of her in my head for saying things like she knew what her children were going to look like because it'd come to her in a dream or vision or whatever. I'd always smile and nod, and think, yeah, fucking right. Now I can see those blonde twins too, and I wish they were here. I don't remember what their names were supposed to be...