"April, girl, I love you like my own sister," he says, quiet but with steel in his voice, "and because I love you, I am not going to listen to your pity-party anymore. Yeah, you fucked up. You got AIDS. You killed yourself. You slept with someone to get smack. Big. Fucking. Deal. How long are you gonna keep proving your old man right so you have an excuse to feel like shit?"
"I don't... I don't know how to stop," she whispers. "I mean... I figure it's probably focusing on the good things, but I can't think of anything good."
She's feeling somewhat better. Physically, at least.
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She's not going to keep going. Even if she knows it's true, she knows he'll get cranky if she doesn't shut up.
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Needed? Oh yeah.
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Not saying a single word.
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She honestly can't find anything worthwhile about herself. That's hard.
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