When we’re young, we’re taught to trust nobody other than your parents, but then we get older, and we learn we can’t even trust them.

This morning, the hospital called with a bill of a couple hundred dollars. She died last night. Overdosed on heroin. There’s a tinge of some emotion in my chest, but I can’t quite seem to grasp what it is. It’s an odd feeling. 

I am not sad. Her being gone is usual, only this time she’s not going to drunk dial me at 3 in the morning, telling me she’s found the one to replace dad. She’s not going to leave a sticky note in her horrid hand writing on the fridge, saying to eat breakfast and go to school and she’d be back later.

She never would come back.

I am not lonely. I hate people- deeply. One less person in my life isn’t horrible, is it?

I am not… nothing, though. It concerns me.