You know, Dad died. A few years ago. I can't even remember it now... You know.
The day... Sometime in June. When it was cold. And there was lots of rain.
The taxi he was in smashed into a wall. Just like that. Lost control and smashed straight into the wall.
Did you know people don't help? They go to the scene to steal the things off the dead people. Like, imagine wearing a dead man's leather jacket? That was his favourite jacket. And I actually liked that jacket on him. The phone his boss bought him, an early birthday present. His utilitarian stripey polo. I'll never forget.
Cut open. Like real Grey's Anatomy type shit. Apparently, he had like broken ribs and everything. His clothes were in... were in those plastic bags the hospital gives your personal belonging in.
It's weird. I don't know what I thought it would be like. I tell myself that he wasn't in any pain to make myself feel better. Even though he had every bone in his body broken. But then I get sad thinking about how he died alone in hospital. And no one was looking for him because we thought he was just working late.
That mum called. Like a million times because she was worried. That we weren't that kind of family. Like, we hated each other, but we always can back home.
I don't think I was ever anxious before then. But now, I'm, like, so scared all the time. And I keep thinking about death. Like, really thinking about it. Horror movie scenarios. That I never thought it could happen to ordinary people. You know. Like us. Ordinary people like my dad.