Trust me when I say, the guilt ate me alive. It wasn't the first time the mother of his child tried to attack me, but it was the last. I expect never to see her again. Ottawa is big enough of a place. It was at his funeral, the one I barged into with two of my girlfriends, only to see Jesse laying in a fucking casket on the other side of the room. "You killed him," she screamed as she charged at me but his dad was standing in-between us and he held her back. My girlfriends and I promptly left.
I had gone to the flower store earlier, and I had said, "there has been a death," to the man who was running it. I plopped the white flowers down on the ground of the funeral parlour before we exited the room. It tortures me, what she said. First of all, no I did not kill him. I stuffed the drugs in my bra the night he died. I cut him off. It's a truly horrific thing for me to recount, now that I'm thinking about it. But I can't stop thinking about it.
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