Fake Popsicle Widow
After Robbie died, Brenda would tell anyone within earshot about the time the two of them had split a double popsicle. As if it had made them married-by-sugar. She wanted attention for her connection with the dead kid, so she pretended to be a popsicle widow. She held a single wooden stick at his memorial service, to symbolize their fake true love. Ten years old and already a drama queen.
Robbie and I once traded candy. But I never claimed that he and I “gave each other chocolates.” While technically true, that wouldn’t have been an accurate description. I didn’t know Robbie and I wasn’t going to pretend otherwise, for clout. That’s gross and exploitative, Brenda.
As we got older, Brenda continued to court the publicity of grief. She’d show up to your funeral with perfect makeup, only to smudge it with crocodile tears. But just enough to look Sad and Hot. Not enough to look genuinely messy. True grief is ugly; Brenda was too vain to even fake it, let alone feel it.
The sound of Brenda’s neck snapping reminded me of broken popsicle sticks. It was the closest I’ve ever felt to anyone. Brenda and I had a genuine bond. For about a minute.
But still, at her funeral, I didn’t show emotion. We weren’t friends, and I didn’t want to lie with my eyes. That’s Brenda’s thing, and I’m more moral than she was. Rest in obscurity, you narcissist.
Horror Sleaze Trash 