She heard people talking about things. Their lives, their issues, their problems.
"How I've wished, over the years, that I never told anyone about that poke in the butt!"
Raped at 13. But if you write a tell-all about your life, then everyone will always know.
"There comes a time in life when you need to let it go-unless you don't want to. And then, in a sense, it's your problem"
She knew of other people, dear friends and also acquaintances, who spill their life out to each new person. Their life narrative comes out as you shake their hand, a pump already primed. At least Flashers expose & run.
She never understood why anyone would share their grief. Multiplying it, thoughtlessly, like someone idly playing with a calculator. Let me tell you, and then you can carry the One, add it to your own sorrows, dividing your time.
She understood how much easier it was to share love. Like food, like shelter, inviting yet another person to dinner, to the party, into conversation. Not hard. She tried it whenever she could, always in the lookout for other people left alone. Inviting them into her circle of fire.
She felt a chill around others far too often.
She missed her brother.
It was the last and only time she felt complete love. She had boyfriends and girlfriends and best friends and lovers. Circles of support, colleagues, fellow hobbyists, community.
Nothing compared.
She tried to hold his love, who he was and all essences around him, like a glowing orb. If she could have changed him into her sun, she would have. But he was always more fragile, something made of glass, a light hung from the ceiling, a pendant.
She kept him in her life however she could.
There was a trunk. A silver trunk she kept with her through every move. Sometimes, she wouldn't open it for years. It was enough to know it was there.
That summer, she was sent off. It brought her into a new world, no matter how she begged, they wouldn't bring her home. She made friends, learned the patterns of the Big City and forgot her home life.
He never was there when she called. No stories told to get her upset, zero updates. Looking back, she should have been much more suspicious, should have realized that she was the one doing all the talking. The conversations changed from begging and crying to excitement and discoveries. Typical tales from camp. But she was studying Linguistics and was in love with Languages. Nothing else.
She didn't hear the grunts on the other end of the line. Yes, no, that's great honey. Good for you!! No, he's not home right now.
When she came back, they hung their heads. Not wanting to tell her.
First, he had gotten a job in another state. She knew he would keep in touch, even though he was probably still mad at her fir what she did. Then, he had run away. Or then, he had tried to hurt himself.
But he would write me!! He would call!!
Then it came out.
He had died during the summer and they had never told her.
Swimming in a river. Dangerous enough, he knew better. Passive suicide, they said.
But it was more complicated.
He had survived.
Pulled out. He was 18. They had chosen to disown him. (Probably because of what she had said. When she got VERY mad. And talked about The Games)
So he WAS dead to them.
And catatonic.
For years.
They would switch his meds every so often. And he would write her. He'd find her. Not easy, but he did. Never a return address, but because he didn't want to hear her be mad at him. Still couldn't take it.
I'm alive.
That's all he said.
That's what she kept in her silver trunk.
He was diagnosed with Mixed Bipolar; violent episodes and moments of energized depression. Unable to control himself. I'm better off here than out in the world.
He never got to hear her say how much she loved him. All the expressions of live, the range with him was better than the quiet without him.
How tender he was. How perfect.
He took for granted that he had taken something, not given it.
The letters were as follows:
"How I've wished, over the years, that I never told anyone about that poke in the butt!"
Raped at 13. But if you write a tell-all about your life, then everyone will always know.
"There comes a time in life when you need to let it go-unless you don't want to. And then, in a sense, it's your problem"
She knew of other people, dear friends and also acquaintances, who spill their life out to each new person. Their life narrative comes out as you shake their hand, a pump already primed. At least Flashers expose & run.
She never understood why anyone would share their grief. Multiplying it, thoughtlessly, like someone idly playing with a calculator. Let me tell you, and then you can carry the One, add it to your own sorrows, dividing your time.
She understood how much easier it was to share love. Like food, like shelter, inviting yet another person to dinner, to the party, into conversation. Not hard. She tried it whenever she could, always in the lookout for other people left alone. Inviting them into her circle of fire.
She felt a chill around others far too often.
She missed her brother.
It was the last and only time she felt complete love. She had boyfriends and girlfriends and best friends and lovers. Circles of support, colleagues, fellow hobbyists, community.
Nothing compared.
She tried to hold his love, who he was and all essences around him, like a glowing orb. If she could have changed him into her sun, she would have. But he was always more fragile, something made of glass, a light hung from the ceiling, a pendant.
She kept him in her life however she could.
There was a trunk. A silver trunk she kept with her through every move. Sometimes, she wouldn't open it for years. It was enough to know it was there.
That summer, she was sent off. It brought her into a new world, no matter how she begged, they wouldn't bring her home. She made friends, learned the patterns of the Big City and forgot her home life.
He never was there when she called. No stories told to get her upset, zero updates. Looking back, she should have been much more suspicious, should have realized that she was the one doing all the talking. The conversations changed from begging and crying to excitement and discoveries. Typical tales from camp. But she was studying Linguistics and was in love with Languages. Nothing else.
She didn't hear the grunts on the other end of the line. Yes, no, that's great honey. Good for you!! No, he's not home right now.
When she came back, they hung their heads. Not wanting to tell her.
First, he had gotten a job in another state. She knew he would keep in touch, even though he was probably still mad at her fir what she did. Then, he had run away. Or then, he had tried to hurt himself.
But he would write me!! He would call!!
Then it came out.
He had died during the summer and they had never told her.
Swimming in a river. Dangerous enough, he knew better. Passive suicide, they said.
But it was more complicated.
He had survived.
Pulled out. He was 18. They had chosen to disown him. (Probably because of what she had said. When she got VERY mad. And talked about The Games)
So he WAS dead to them.
And catatonic.
For years.
They would switch his meds every so often. And he would write her. He'd find her. Not easy, but he did. Never a return address, but because he didn't want to hear her be mad at him. Still couldn't take it.
I'm alive.
That's all he said.
That's what she kept in her silver trunk.
He was diagnosed with Mixed Bipolar; violent episodes and moments of energized depression. Unable to control himself. I'm better off here than out in the world.
He never got to hear her say how much she loved him. All the expressions of live, the range with him was better than the quiet without him.
How tender he was. How perfect.
He took for granted that he had taken something, not given it.
The letters were as follows:
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