There was no grief on his niece’s end when they dragged his body out of the house, after maybe 20 or 30 minutes of trying to get through the bathroom door. Seeing her grandmother cry was awful, yes, but knowing he was dead- gone for good- was not so bad.
She was scared of him- they all were. He wasn’t exactly a great guy. She still remember, clearly, the shape of the stain from that bottle of coffee he threw. Better the wall than someone’s face, sure, but every once in a while it was someone’s face.
And yet every time he wound up behind bars, his mother bailed him out.
Everyone (well, almost everyone) told his mother, but she didn’t listen. They told her to let him sit there, so that he could think on it. So that he could maybe even get some help for once. But every time, every single time, he ended up back on someone’s couch, or behind the wheel of someone’s car. And every time, he wore the same rough shirts and the same worn out cap. And every time it was the same stuff- first just some pot, and then more heroin, and then way too much fentanyl.
Now, it was over. His recklessness had been his demise. Dead, cramped up in the corner of a small half-bathroom of a house that had never been his own, with loose change scattered about, a single spoon in the sink, and enough of the stuff to floor a horse- and then some.
It gave her sadness, but not grief. It was not some terrible thing to mourn over. It was just sad.
Remi Jones is a 17-year-old from Tennessee, USA. She primarily writes short stories and other forms of fiction. She also creates visual art and writes research papers and articles on subjects of interest to her (mostly history and other social studies). Her stories range from those taken from life to those entirely imagined and developed in her mind.