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Dear Dad

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Stepping onto the worn path outside that turns off of my long winding driveway, I ask the same question I've been asking myself this entire last week: Is my father out of his freaking mind? He brought me here, to the middle of nowhere, right after I finished my first week of school. Is he on drugs?! I believe he is. Out of his mind that is. He came here so that he could"focus on his writing". He hasnt had a book published since I was born. He thinks not having another job will help him focus, along with the quiet of the country-side. But I am a pure bred city girl. And he still dragged me with him.

I sat on an old log, waiting for the big yellow school bus full of good little country kids. It was gonna begod awful. Eventually I saw the rusted peice of junk rumbling down the road to bring me to my horrible fate. It was an old fashioned one, where the bus driver had to pull a lever to open the door. Joy. I looked down the isle seeing the kind of people I didn't expect here ever. To kids were practically on top of each other making out in the front seat, I was scared of moving farther to the back of the bus. I sat in the second seat, across from the one behind the the two lusters,so I wouldn't be as nauseated by them. The bus ride was as I expected: torture.

I smiled as I entered a classroom that was totally empty. Happy now that I was in the country. Happy that I could do what I was planning since I moved here. Bringing myself to a terrible fate. Or so it would seem to somebody else. Father? You need a title for your next book? How about "How My Daughter Died". You can write that I hated you. That I wanted out. That 3 kids that also wanted out had me kill them first. You will find them each, including me, naked, with cuts on their wrists and necks that would lead to fatal bleeding. You will find us dead, in the health class room. Which doubles as the schools psychologsts room. Enjoy the irony of that.





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