Finally after she drags herself up from behind the grave stone, she makes it to her empty home. Empty. Lonely. Alone. She breaks out the new journal she bought before work. And a fancy pen. Something she will be enticed to write with. She asked about keeping one, her therapist said it would be good for her. Now, it just seems futile. But she still writes.

IT'S ALL MY FAULT

It can't all be my fault, can it? I mean, everything? All of it is my fault. I never learned how to be a meek, submissive good girl. How can you when you survived on the streets, keeping yourself from being defiled while your mother sold you for some smack. Fuck, I lost my virginity to the drug dealer, though he was nice about it. And gentle. Others, not so much. I learned something though. The meek and mild get eaten by the sharks of the city, and spit back out into people like my ma was.

But he blames me. I'm the one who isn't supposed to do something. I'm the one who isn't supposed to provoke. I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut.

Well you're supposed to keep your cock wrapped up and in your pants where you don't fuck certain people, and that didn't happen, did it.

But I'm supposed to keep my mouth shut and supposed to be the good girl. As long as I'm the good girl do I get a cookie? Do I get to come home to you confessing you fucked your baby mama again? Or your lover's girl? Do I get to come home to you saying you didn't wear a condom and hopefully they are on the pill? How many have you fucked, got high with, drunk with, and didn't follow the only thing I ever asked of you. To wrap. It. Up. I never kept you from being you. I encouraged you to be yourself, I love you as yourself. I love every part about you, even your fucking flaws.

But it's my fault. All my fault.

He's probably right. It's my fault. I'm too stupid to know when to be quiet. That's what he's for, he's the smart one. Most of the time. Not me. I am the do-er. I do things, I get things done, I mouth off so someone thinks it's just a bullshit threat. I carry the bat, I hit the things, so he doesn't have to. Violence isn't supposed to happen to him when I'm around.

It's my fault and I failed him.

Am I going to fail this child, too? Probably. It's better off without me. Let me become my mother, as long as the child is safe. After he leaves me (I know he will, I put his child in danger, he said he would) I'll just make sure the child is safe with him. Then I can go out and end it how my ma did. At least I won't endanger the bean inside. Right?

Fuck I want pills so bad. I can't even drink this day away. If he's going to leave, what does it matter, right?

I owe it to the bean to stay healthy, clean, safe. Safe. There is no place safe here. Fucking delusional. Explosions today, shootings in three different locations. Fuck safe. I'm not even safe in my own home. I could hit my head and drown in the tub. But I should have been smarter. He said if he goes and kills himself, or someone else, it's all my fault. Because I wasn't smart.

It really is all my fault.

Closes the diary, some of the ink smears on the pages, big blotches of wetness against the ink. It's left on the kitchen table, no one will read it anyhow. Not right now. It stays there to remind her to write more, when she can.