January 1st

Posted: January 1, 2013 in Uncategorized

Dear Journal,

My name is Miriam Summers. I’m 23, overly average and I’m only writing in you because it was the last request my therapist had for me, and since I can’t talk to him again, I feel that writing in your means I am honouring his memory or something. He didn’t move, and I didn’t stop needing someone to talk to – he was eaten alive.

Did I get your attention?

We had our confrontational moments, he and I, but over the past couple years, I have grown to believe that he’s not my enemy. Sometimes I thought I was just his work, and other times I felt he might have actually cared more for me than his other patients. Stupid, right? I bet all therapists are taught to make their patients feel special.

I’m not; I’m pretty okay with that.

I only started going to therapy in the first place because my Mother was afraid that, as a single child, I didn’t have someone to confide in. I’m not overly talkative, and since she would pester me with questions that I barely answered, day in and day out, she got fed up trying to be that person. I don’t blame her. I loved my Mother, but we never really bonded on a friendship level. I kept going to therapy after she died, because I felt like I owed it to her. Plus it was already paid for. Plus, Rich, my therapist, figured I would have baggage to unload about being the one to find her.

The system our town has for keeping the threat out is pretty good, but once in a while, the barricade is breached. People die. Usually, people die horrible deaths, filled with fear and adrenaline and blood everywhere. At least, this is what I can assume from finding my Mother speared across our kitchen floor one day after school. I had never seen a victim before. I’d heard screams, and seen people running, panicked, down the street. It didn’t even occur to me at the time that I could be in danger. I just stood in the doorway, backpack half slung to the floor, tangling in my fingers above my Mother’s congealing pool of blood. I could mostly tell it was her based on the blue and ivory dress that was now ripped and encrusted with gore. I didn’t look at the face, which was mercifully turned the other way. I remember her body how I found it, but her face, when it pops into my head, is from a photo I still keep in the living room.

How did I start out talking about myself and Rich, and get back to the mess that became of my Mother? Maybe it is a good thing I keep to myself. No one really needs to know what is going on in my head.

Except this journal, I suppose. I keep my memory of my Mother alive with her portrait in the living room, and I’ll keep Rich’s memory alive by writing in this journal. He suggested writing for at least a year, and what better time to start than on January 1st?

So Happy 2023, journal. Hopefully this one is better than the last; I’m running out of people I know who can be devoured by “people” we aren’t supposed to call zombies. I guess I can call them whatever the hell I like in here. It’s not like anyone is going to read this rambling drivel.



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