You remember when you were much younger and used to attend the Sunday school across the road; you remember its brick wall, grey interlocking and how it smelt of chalk and fruit juice. The Sunday school pastor would preach about hope and faith, and how they were beautiful things. You remember this much but they mean little to you now, as faith was your large eyed sister who spent a year in the hospital and died before turning eight while Hope was the harlot who warms father’s bed while mother was away during the weekends. Hope’s skin was pale with want, the type of pale that reminded you of the skinned uncooked turkey bought every year for thanksgiving, there was no longer much to give thanks for. Hope also had on crimson lipstick, the color in which you now saw the world, with jet black eyes like the sofa by your bedside where your fears sat watching you attempt to fall asleep in vain.