Nothing. My eyes are still filled with tears, my thoughts are still full of hurt, but I feel nothing. The tears refuse to fall, though I know they should, so I sit in the kitchen, watching the candles burn. There’s one for every family death that’s happened on this day, plus Oscar Wilde’s. One for Lyall , from last year, one for Fang, and several more that I’m not sure I could name if I tried. I know he was only a cat, but I still loved him, he was still part of the family, and I should be feeling things. But every time I try to cry, my emotions stop in their tracks. I have plenty of reason, death and depression, circumstance and pie, but I still feel nothing when I need to. When I got the news that my cat died, all I wanted to do was laugh, and I’m really not sure why. Who the fuck laughs? I guess this is just more proof that I’m broken, another thing to add to the fucking list. No. You know what? I’m done. I am fucking done with this brain, with this fucking brain that I’ve been given. I’ve been dealt a Hell of a hand, and I’m ready to either fold or kill the dealer. And the latter is looking pretty fucking good right now. I don’t care how unreasonable it is, I am done feeling broken and miserable, and I am done hurting other people, and I am even more fucking done with whoever the fuck is looking down on me and watching. I am done with whatever god decided to take that amazing fucking woman out of this world before she really had a chance to get started. I am done with whoever decided that cat had lived long enough, had had enough fucking happiness, and stopped enough panic attacks. Shit, I broke the lighter. Guess I better go swing around a foil and listen to metal until I don’t want to murder every fucking being who much as looks at me.