19
Blood seeped out of the ground where the inmate had killed himself a few days or weeks before; I wasn't sure of time anymore. It might only have been hours since it happened. The rain pelted down, but the blood wouldn’t wash away. It didn't seem to bother any of my fellow inmates; I was the only one affected. It made me remember things I wanted to forget.
I saw the stain in my mother’s bedroom, where my father had shot himself. No matter how much she scrubbed, it wouldn’t come out.
My parents' bedroom was untidy; it always had been. My mother’s knickers and bras were strewn across the floor. She’d never been a stickler for tidiness. It was exactly how I remembered it from my childhood when everything was as it should be. My father stood in the middle of the room, crying. He was a lit
