It has been three weeks since mother died. We no longer attempt the charade of speech.
Our days go on like this: Father stares blankly at me, numbing blame in his eyes. Mary-Ann paces ceaselessly round the bed, awaiting a maternal embrace that will never come.
She no longer annoys me.
I can no longer feel.
Wigglytuff, god help him, has taken to catatonia to cope with the guilt.
This is our hell.