I hate Michael for taking his life.

                I hate him more for not killing himself in winter. When I wouldn’t be bothered by the heat in my thick, black funeral dress.

Then again, he was always thinking of himself.

I was going to wear a summer dress. My mother deemed it inappropriate.

                But right now, after standing in this shitty cemetery for over a half hour (with no trees or shade insight mind you, just row after row of fucking graves.) I’ve decided fuck inappropriateness.

Fuck standing in thirty degree heat.

Fuck Michael.

I didn’t talk for three and a half weeks after that. Not a word. Not even when I was by myself in the confines of my bedroom.

Before Michael’s death my parents would have given a leg each to shut me up.

But now, throw in a brother’s successful suicide attempt, and I’m considered mentally unstable.

I can’t help it if there’s nothing interesting to say.

“Ashley we’ll call you every chance we get.” My mother says as she kisses my cheek, no doubt leaving one of her signature lipstick smears.

                I’ll sure miss those.

“Kiddo look after yourself,” I hear my father say as he grabs me into a hug. “This will all be worth it. You can think more clearly there. And maybe when you come back, we’ll have our old Ashley.”

“I’ll try Dad.” I wasn’t really going to try. I mean I didn’t know where to start with that. But the poor old man looked like he was about to cry.

“We love you so much.”

I’m on a rehabilitation ranch in Louisiana.

You guessed it. Despite the fact that I started talking to my parents again, they did what any concerned parent would do in their situation.

They sent their now only child across the country to a ranch in Louisiana, filled with strangers who could supposably help me become the lovely, bubbly daughter I was before my brother committed suicide.

Do I sound sceptical?? Funny that…

So… how to describe this ranch… My home for the next five months.