J. Beaman - The Magazine

I was eight years old when my mom died. She was shot, in the face, by a very bad man and didn’t die instantly but was kept alive in the hospital for a few weeks. I was not allowed to see her; which is good because I’m traumatized enough.

I asked my grandpa if someone had to pay the hospital bill. It made sense to me that they failed. If I hired you to fix my car and you didn’t I would want my money back.

But my grandpa was a good guy.

“They did the best they could, son.”

I didn’t understand. They didn’t do the job they were hired to do and it seems like common decency to not charge someone some retarded amount of money, that they probably can’t pay anyway, just after their daughter died.

I hate these people and I want my fucking money back.

Maybe the cops could give me my money back. They came to my house over fifteen times from complaints about the very bad man hurting my sister, my mom and myself. But didn’t actually do anything. Or my teachers who didn’t report the bruises. Or Jack Daniels: fueler of rages.

Or maybe every wife beater in the country should be required to give ten percent of their income to the “I want my fucking money back” fund. It would be like taxes. The more of a bastard you are the more tax you have to pay. This should make the rich people happy because as long as they’re good they can have low taxes.