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Fury.

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June 6, 2006.
A day more memorable than all those preceding it.
Cold, Dreary, White.
The room was a prison from which I would never escape.
I look a mess.
Been up for hours on end.
Father is clenching my hands and my hearts is palpitating on an extreme level.
I feel as though and elephant has sat on me.
I can’t help but want to kill the man that made my circumstances what they are on this day.
Then the moment I feared.
A man in a white coat emerges from behind a heavy ivory door.
He shakes his head.
It’s no good.
We’ve struck out.
“I’m sorry. He didn’t make it.”
My father loosens his grasp and drops to the ground.
I stand frozen.
But within my heart a blaze.
I was furious.
Why do we cherish life and find it to be sacred when we dispose of it like yesterdays garbage?





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