I know this is headlined as a story, but I prefer it be a poem. Anyways, poetries are stories:

For four fifths of my life length,
I've never really known
How to feel when someone,
Nevertheless close, dies.

When my mother made her last mortified & hugely derisive gestures On Feb 7, 2072, I did not know how to feel. I could not cry, despite that I tried. When they entombed her, I was absent. Dad and her had separated, so my little sibling and I had to live separated, and separated from them too.

I still do not know if the old...