Thread by @LauraRiggaro

I’m going to share something with you all that not many people know about me.
My mother was not a nice mother. My sister, Donna, who was 9 years older than me, stepped up and took care of me. Very loving soul. One early morning, she walked up the street, and drank antifreeze.

A neighbor called an ambulance. At the hospital they pumped her stomach and she was in stable condition. Committing suicide is against the law and a family member must stay over night to watch. My mother refused. In a small nook off to the side there was a green recliner.

I’m actually back in that room right at this very moment as I type this. That green, faux leather…I can feel it sticking to my skin. I wore shorts and a T-shirt that day. I was cold. They gave me a small pillow and a blanket. I lay there for hours, the day turned to night.

The room was dimly lit. Sleep never came. At some point during the night a nurse came in to check on her. I was to the left of the door and her bed was to the right, so the foot of the bed was facing me, approximately 10 feet or so away. I was careful not to move, easily missed.

The nurse checked her IV and left the room, closing the door behind him. She had been in a coma like state all day. Within minutes my sister abruptly sat up and vigorously began tearing at the tubes attached to her body! She was forcefully clawing at her chest, unable to breath!

An alarm sounded, that beeping, and all at once staff rushed in, began holding her down, then someone looked over their shoulder, noticed me there, and rushed me out of the room. About an hour later my parents came and picked me up. No one spoke on the drive home. More silence.

The next day was my English final. I missed it. My teacher let me make it up the following week, such a sweet woman. When I arrived she asked how my sister was doing. “So much better,” I replied. She was so happy to hear. But that wasn’t the truth. I lied. My sister had died.

My sister, Donna Bonito, died at the hands of a serial killer. He came that night wearing a white jacket, disguised as a nurse. His name was Richard Angelo. That night he murdered a real life Angel who walked among us. That man took someone so incredibly dear to me, away forever.

I was 16 years old when that happened. Years later I married and had my first daughter. Ironically enough, Richard’s parents worked at the middle school she attended. His mom was a math teacher. His father was a guidance counselor. I’m sure they suffered pain as well.

I’m sure you’re wondering why, at 53 years old am I telling my story now? I’ve been thinking about this guy lately. I want to write him a letter. I want to send him a picture. I wonder if he thinks about what he’s done. I don’t know why. I don’t know if I should. Idk. Should I?