It is beautiful.
When I was a teenager, I was yelled at, a lot. I was told I was ugly, stupid, and unwanted.
It's hard to hear from a parent.
This parent was angry. Having never wanted children, she made sure I knew it and was gleeful in her insane hungover rampages, hungry for victims to her own misery.
It impeded me.
It took years of therapy to learn my own power in fighting against a tyrant. As I get older (I'm almost thirty - terrifying), I realize that I can do pretty much what I want, within reason. I can be whoever I want, no matter what anyone says. Even an authority figure with power over me. I can be free.
What's beautiful about this freedom?
Recently, I've made some big life choices. I moved and got a puppy. These are two things I never thought I'd do. I was always told not to be happy, that life is misery and then you die.
But what's cuter than a corgi?
The beauty in this world resides in overcoming the past, and pushing through to the present. Having dinner with friends at the new place, taking my puppy for a walk around the block. Nothing feels better than having strangers 'ooh' and 'ahh' at my adorable two-month old.
Nothing feels better than being free of what you thought you were.
To me, what's beautiful about life is that you can make it what you want. It gets easier as you get older. It took me twelve years of therapy to realize that I am a worthwhile human being, not useless, ugly, and stupid. I am my own entity.
What's beautiful about life is that it can only get more beautiful, the more opportunities to be happy you present yourself with.
It gets so, so much better. Remember that the haters don't live in a beautiful world.
But you can.
A Collision of Worlds
When I nodded off, pillows at my back, laptop propped on my knees and browsing BNHA fanart, the last thing I expected was to wake up with a stranger sitting at the foot of my bed. Dad worked nights, and the shape was much too masculine to be my mother or sister. At 12:34 AM there weren’t many possibilities that didn’t involve me being robbed, hurt, murdered or all of the above. The man was shrouded in darkness as he turned his head to look at me. I dared not scream. What if my mom or sister came running in and he hurt them too? No. This man I’d have to face alone.
Reluctantly, I reached over to my nightstand and clicked on a lamp. The cast caught the man’s features just right for me to see. I let a sigh of relief. It was only Hitler. I must’ve been dreaming.
Lucid dreams don’t typically run in my family, least of all with me. I’m usually a slave to the midnight machinations of my mind. So this was...definitely new.
“Hayyy,” I mumbled awkwardly. “Wattup, dawg?”
“How dare you call me a dog!” he barked, his accent heavy. “Is that how you address your Fuhrer?”
“Relax, dude. It’s just an expression. What, uh...what are you doing here? You realize you’re in the bedroom of a fifteen-year-old girl at midnight. It’s kinda’ weird. I’d kinda’ like an explanation for that, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’m as confused as you are. I’ve heard our dimension occasionally collides with yours, leaving us partially perceivable to the living. But it’s never happened to me before. This is amazing! I have finally found a means to communicate with your kind. The intersections are said to commonly last five, ten minutes. I...I have so many questions. I can’t waste time with this—young as you are, you’ll have to do!”
“This is a weird dream,” I mumbled. “Okay, Hannah, you can wake up any time now.”
“What is my legacy?” he asked, a nervousness in his eyes. “It almost pains me to know. History is never kind to those who lose. But I suppose ignorance would be twice the torture. I’ve marinaded in it for years.”
“Well. They made a few movies about you. Like, films, picture shows.”
“Dare I ask?”
“I didn’t watch it, but there’s this one American film from the ’40s, The Devil With Hitler. Cinema Snob reviewed it, pretty much play-by-play. They took a few creative liberties.”
“How creative?”
“You got shot in the butt with a missile and died.”
“Well, I’m glad they kept it dignified.”
“Pretty sure this was before your actual...yanno’. So maybe they were just hoping,” I shrugged. “Another one was called They Saved Hitler’s Brain. Didn’t watch it. Watched the Snob review. It looked...fairly terrible.”
“Did I get any good films?”
“Well, Tarantino made a good one in that it’s well made. But it still hates your guts.”
“Let me guess. Another missile?”
“Nah. You’re just machine-gunned to pulp and your bullet-ridden corpse gets blown up afterward.”
“Glad he had mercy.”
“But a lot of people die in that movie. It’s not just exclusive to you. Mercy in a Tarantino movie is like a needle in a haystack.”
“I see,” he glanced around at the sketches hung on my wall. “You are an artist?”
“Unofficially. I’m terrified to commit. Those art snobs can be vicious.”
“They know nothing!” he exploded (metaphorically, unlike in the Tarantino movie). “You could vomit on a canvas and they’d call it fine art. I applied for the Academy of Fine Arts in Vienna twice and they rejected me on both counts. My art had promise. Even as a foolish child I knew that. But they...they couldn’t see. I needed a hand up, and they smacked mine away.”
“Things would’ve been a lot better if you became an artist. That’s for sure.”
“Is that what passes for art nowadays?” he looked at the laptop screen, where I was now scrolling through images for kawaii.
“Pretty much. It ain’t bad.”
“Ain’t bad? These supposed people don’t even look like people. The proportion is all off. The eyes take up half the head. Like a terrifying beast pulled from the depths of a nightmare.”
“Oh, that’s just anime. They’re not meant to look realistic. That’s the design.”
“The beast, it stares into my soul...” he shuddered.
“Huh. Maybe I’m just desensitized.”
“What are you eating with?” his eyes found the salad on my nightstand, and the curious utensil resting up top.
“Oh, this? It’s only the greatest invention ever conceived by man. It’s called a spork.” I grabbed it and brandished it enthusiastically.
“Someone combined...a spoon and a fork? Do you Americans not consider this an abomination? You’re crossbreeding utensils!”
“Nah. We think it’s cool. Some think it’s pretty useless; but you have naysayers with everything.”
“Get it out of my sight,” he growled, receding into the corner with a strange hiss.
I pulled the nightstand drawer open, paused for dramatic effect, and dropped it in.
“The spork was invented by Germany,” I muttered under my breath.
“WHAT?!”
“Just kidding.”
“What is that!”
“Oh, sorry. Clicked the wrong link. We didn’t need to see that. DeviantArt has a lot of...deviancy.”
“Degenerate swine.” He pressed further into the corner. More strange hissing.
“I wouldn’t take it that far. Though that was pretty gross. Gotta’ be careful when browsing the interwebs.” I paused to think. “Hey I got a paper coming up. You think you could help me out? Though, I suppose it would be in poor taste to cheat like that...so...nevermind.”
“Indeed. If you rely on being given the answers to everything you become soft in the mind, and turn into a malleable imbecile.” He hesitated. “But...we’re losing focus. What became of Germany?”
“Well, they lost, as you probably figured. They’re still around though. It’s no horrible dystopia over there, to my knowledge.”
“But Germany...doesn’t rule the world?”
“No.”
“Not even Europe?”
“Nope.”
“And my birthday isn’t celebrated as an international holiday?”
“It’s 4-20, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then yesss. But don’t ask what for. It ain’t you.”
“Hannah, is everything alright in there?” I heard a voice outside my door.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I called back. The footsteps slowly disappeared.
“Is that your mother?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. The voice was just familiar. For a moment it almost reminded me of my own mother. She died when I was just a few years older than you. Never was my sadness more unbearable than the day of her passing.”
“I’m sorry. I guess that was part of the reason you banked so much on art school. My mom and I are really close. I can’t imagine missing that acceptance in my life, looking for it somewhere else just to get shot down at every corner. I wish someone had been a little nicer to you back then. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to try so hard.”
He slouched in defeat. “You are wise for someone of your age. Were you alive in my time, you would’ve set a good precedent to follow. A balance of knowledge and emotional maturity. It’s admirable—” A current of static rippled over him, and his already-transparent body began to fade. “The dimensions are starting to diverge again. I won’t be able to stay here much longer. I may have another minute at most...”
“Okay,” I said. “But there’s one thing you should probably know before you leave. Two things, really.”
“What?”
I shut my laptop, and gently planted a finger above my name, first and last. My parents had gotten it personalized for me for my birthday.
His expression changed a bit when he read it.
“That’s you?”
I nodded.
“You’re...you have to be joking.”
“And I’m autistic. Aspergers. So in your book I’d be owe for two.”
For a long time, it appeared he’d lost the ability to speak. I didn’t intend it as revenge; rather to show him the people he so vehemently hated were still just that. People.
He vanished before he could get any sound out, but his expression was quite memorable.
Nothing more to do, I reached over to my nightstand, got my salad, and continued eating with my spork.
*****
And just like that, I woke up. Totally called that one. I’m sure my therapist will love when I tell her Hitler made a cameo in my latest dream. First Epstein and now this.
#fiction, #strictlyfiction, #donttrythisathome
The Apathy of Time
A gentle lattice of rain trickles down the carriage’s windows, a living, liquid curtain that distorts the stunning view of Scotland’s pastoral countryside. The West Coast Main Line is outstandingly beautiful, as is typical this time of year, yet my mood is marred by the nagging anxiety that I harbor in the back of my mind, a product of overwhelming uncertainty and the most ghastly fog to which I awoke in London this morning. The whole town reeked of rotted eggs, and something about the air made one feel as though one’s lungs were being crushed in. Not that anyone needs any help feeling that way, as of late. Talk about a year for the rubbish bin. It all started with the destruction of Cairo by fire, followed promptly by the passing of our beloved King George—God rest his soul. Take all that and add it to the Polio epidemic, that dreadful disease running rampant across the Empire—or what’s left of it—ravaging our children, no less. And if that weren’t enough to signal the end of the world, let’s cap it all off with the design and detonation of our first Atomic Bomb; why we’ve decided to follow the example of our wayward cousins across the Atlantic, I’ll never know.
And still, we carry on, as we always do. Be it into the jaws of hell or to the end of life as we know it, that remains to be seen.
“We’re coming up on Glasgow. You might want to start pulling your head out of the clouds,” says my traveling companion, Charles, from his seat beside me. He stands up and grabs the most grotesque-looking tweed briefcase from the storage overhead, something I’d never be caught dead carrying in public.
Charles is the Special Programs Advisor to the Secretary of State for War and, as such, the primary liaison in charge of financing my project. It also so happens we grew up in the East End together, a fact that certainly doesn’t hurt my chances of continued funding, though I’ve never been one to place all my eggs in one basket. This project must be able to stand on its own merit, independent of whatever personal history I may have.
“You look nervous,” he says, leaning on his seat with one arm.
I pull my attention from the window and grab my coat from the back of my own seat. “Perhaps I am,” I admit.
“What’s got you so upset, then?”
I sigh, letting my exhale carry the weight of my anxiety. “I’d be a fool not to know what this extended timeline is doing to you and your office. If we fail today, it may take years to seek out the bugs and rectify our formulas, and I'm guessing you can only divert funds for so long without people asking questions.”
There’s a pause where the only sound comes from the small number of other travelers in the carriage and the steady cachunk, cachunk of the wheels as they pass along the rails.
“Yes, well,” he says with a strained look, clearly concealing the fact that he, too, shares my concerns. “Let’s hope this is a smashing success, then.”
I give a weak smile in response and look back out the window. The stars are just beginning to peek out from behind the rainclouds, despite the fact that it’s barely four o’clock. It gets dreadfully dark up here in the winter—not that London is much better—though there’s something about the heavens at night that have always enchanted me. Most of the rest of the world seems to be perpetually focused on terrestrial matters—taxes, politics, moving borders a foot this way or that—truly something that baffles me to no end. Why would anyone be so engrossed in the matters of this war-torn, plague-ridden planet? Why would anyone be content to remain tethered to our small fleck of a home, our grain of sand in a sea of stars and galaxies? Personally, I find the most solace outside our thin blue atmosphere, up beyond the reach of the insignificant and inconsequential.
Well, in any case, the only ones who seem to agree with me are the Russians, albeit their intentions tend to lean on the viler side, a most unfortunate reality. Though, perhaps the American beast will be wakened at the threat of Russian dominance, as pride-driven as they are. But, the Empire cannot wait upon her prodigal son to stand as defender of the world, not again. We must take our future into our own hands, which is why it’s so crucial that my work succeeds, and that it succeeds quickly.
The train pulls into the station, and a small herd of us are ushered unceremoniously out of the carriage. Pockets of families wish each other well and give their final loving goodbyes, an emotional rabble that peppers the platform with sentimental trifle. I feel a tinge of guilt for seeming so heartless in my thoughts, but held within the frame of what I know we mean to attempt, it all seems rather trivial. Not that I blame them. The people of Glasgow never truly felt the sting of the war like those of us in London did. They never had to rush to cover their windows when the dreaded siren sounded to herald in the Blitz, nor were they forced to watch in dreaded awe as rockets rained down upon helpless civilians faster than the speed of sound itself. So why on Earth would they feel the same level of urgency that’s been so deeply impressed upon me? Why should they feel that same fire to never again become subject to the dominance of fear or any of her allies.
Anyways, the war has passed, and now we’ve turned our swords into plowshares. We fight a war of the mind rather than one of might—a cold war, to quote George Orwell, if you will. Wernher von Braun, the German-American scientist who developed the V-2, now talks about using his tool to send humanity to Mars. It seems mad, right? Using those lethal weapons, the very embodiment of Vengeance itself, to blast something, someone, off this planet, all in the name of science. But a weapon capable of flattening a city in a single strike seemed like fiction, too, before it became fact. And now, our charge, and the charge of any freedom-loving scientist, is to prevent the Red Menace from attempting to reshape the proverbial plow back into a weapon of unimaginable consequence. We must always stay one step ahead, if not more.
Von Braun purposes to build a platform in our planet’s orbit, a space station that we might use to launch ourselves to the Moon and beyond. The Russians and the Americans may soon accomplish such a feat, but we must be prepared, as the British Nation, to dominate well beyond the influence of Ares. That is where my research comes into play. The journey to realms beyond our inner Solar System may take a considerable amount of time, time that our physiology and biology do not allow. Therefore, the use of cryogenics is key to success when suggesting an expedition farther than the Asteroid Belt.
Today, I will be taking a frozen nap, as it were, just for a month, long enough to chemically analyze my cellular response and measure the aging process while I’m under. I could indeed have someone else take my spot, but I wouldn’t dare trust anyone else. Not with how close we are. If my test is successful, we could be sending people to the outer reaches of our Solar System in a matter of years. And the possibilities from there are endless.
The journey to the research facility just beyond the outskirts of Glasgow is uneventful, if not comfortable, in the unmarked government vehicle. Charles and I exchange no more than a few small words about the passing weather, and by the time we’ve arrived, my mind is quite thoroughly focused on the upcoming test. We pass quickly through the security checkpoints and end up within the familiar walls of my laboratory, which I’ve been using for a host of research experiments these past several years.
My assistants have ensured that everything is waiting and ready ahead of our arrival, and after everyone has settled into the viewing area, I give a few brief words describing the demonstration, then settle into the cryogenic chamber. It’s all rather quick, compared to the seven hour journey here from London, but I prefer it that way. I’m sure I should be nervous as one of my assistants closes the top to the chamber, but honestly, I’m too tired and too mentally strained to be nervous.
There’s a hiss as nitrous fills the chamber, and within moments my vision goes dark.
~
“Doctor Martin, sir, can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?”
I groan and open my eyes, only to have them instantly overwhelmed by a flood of light. Has the test run its course? Has it already been a month? It feels like only a few seconds have passed, not anywhere near the planned twenty-nine days. Regardless of how long it's been, I’m shivering uncontrollably, and I notice that my skin is an unrecognizable shade of purple.
It takes several minutes of blinking and rubbing before I can make out the blurred image of two figures standing in front of me. One of them is a rather tall woman with dark hair and a slender form, the other a sturdily built man with a cleanly shaved head and a thin layer of scruff on his face. Neither of them appear to be members of my research team, nor do they appear, well, for lack of a better word…normal. They have the strangest clothing on, though they do seem to be official looking—what with sidearms strapped to their chests and wearing what could technically pass as business attire.
“Who are you? Why did the test stop?” I grumble, shocked by the trembling roughness of my own voice. A slew of physicians appear at my side and begin fussing around my body, but I beat them off, and they retreat behind the man with the scruff.
“Doctor Martin, I’m Agent Ford and this is Agent Knight. We're with Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service, and we’re here to debrief you and make sure that you’re doing okay,” the woman says carefully, as if speaking to a young child that’s just been injured. Her tone is laced with a hint of, what is it…pity?
“Debrief me? Are you with Charles? Did he send you? I need to start running analysis right away—”
I make a move to stand up, but Agent Knight holds out his hand authoritatively, and I pause.
“Sir, I think you should take it slow,” Agent Ford says with an intentional dose of serenity in her voice. “There are a few things we need to tell you that might come as quite a shock.”
I take notice of the laboratory for the first time since waking up, and my blood instantly chills about ten degrees. The whole room is a wreck—bottles and beakers smashed everywhere, bullet holes riddling the walls, light fixtures hanging precariously from the ceiling, and skeletons, everywhere. Bodies upon bodies, obviously left abandoned for decades, if not more. And among them, over in the viewing area, is Charles’ trademark tweed briefcase, popped open and hanging by one hinge next to one of the bodies. My chest clenches as panic threatens to overcome me.
“What happened? What’s going on?”
Agent Ford furrows her brow in sympathy and takes a step forward, offering out her hand.
“You’ve been asleep for more than sixty-five years, sir. It’s the year twenty-nineteen.”
~
I look around at the bustling morning crowds mulling about Buchanan Street, all headed into unfamiliar shops or dining in any number of foreign-inspired restaurants. Much of what I see is a strange conglomerate of futuristic architecture, a city I’d hardly recognize if it weren’t for the familiar icons such as St Mary’s, Central Station, or the City Chambers. In spite of the madness happening in my life right now, though, I have to admit the smells pull my mind away from it all, tantalizing my appetite, and I realize that I’m insufferably hungry. I mean, why shouldn’t I be? I haven’t eaten in over half a century.
“You wouldn’t mind if we popped into one of those little caffs, do you?” I ask, taking every effort to keep the drool in my mouth.
Agent Ford smiles and nods. “Don’t worry, sir. That’s why we’re here.”
I put my hands in my jacket, temporarily consoled, and look across the way at an old-style church tucked between two towering residential blocks. It’s almost comically out of place, but admittedly soothing for some reason, as if it were placed there just for me, reminding me that even things wizened by time still have their place in this unfamiliar modern era.
“What happened?” I ask Agent Ford earnestly. “With the lab, that is. What went wrong?”
Agent Ford seems reluctant to answer, but eventually she caves in—despite a warning look from Agent Knight. “Your program was quite the black operation, Doctor Martin. As it happens, your friend Charles Baker was the only one in the government who knew about it. The day of your demonstration, there were several undercover Soviet agents present that took advantage of his secretive trip to witness your project, and they assassinated him, along with everyone else present. With no record of where he went or what his undisclosed plans were, his disappearance remained a mystery until just recently.”
“How did you find out, then? How did you find me?” I ask, still struggling to process everything she’s saying.
“The Russians recently declassified a batch of documents from the fifties—from your time, I mean. One of them was a set of hypothetical simulations that involved the assasination of high-level targets on British soil. Turns out, one of the simulations was based on an actual event, the one I’ve been describing to you. We ran it by the Russian Consulate, and while they didn’t explicitly acknowledge their involvement, it was clear we were on the right track with our speculations.”
“Russian Consulate? Are the Soviets friends, then?”
“Friends? Oh, no. Not exactly,” she chuckles. “But let’s say we’re in-between tensions at the moment.”
I nod, confused, but unwilling to press it further.
My mind quickly drifts to the flood of distractions vying for my attention, and I turn my head from side to side in an effort to soak everything in.
“So, tell me, Agent Ford, what did I miss? What’s the world been up to while I’ve been frozen away in the middle of Scotland?”
“Aha, not much, probably,” she says with an infectious smile. “You missed the Vietnam War, the Troubles in Ireland, the War in Iraq, Afghanistan, the dissolution of almost every British colony and territory, the rise of international terrorism, the destruction of our environment, Brexit.”
“Brexit?” I ask, confused.
“Nevermind. Don’t worry about that.”
“And of course,” Agent Knight cuts in, speaking for the first time, “England hasn’t medalled in the World Cup since hosting it in 1966.”
“Excuse me,” Agent Ford says, her face awash with disapproval, “but the women took bronze in 2015.”
“Ah, there’s a women’s World Cup, then?” I say, surprised.
Agent Ford nods and nudges Agent Knight in the side. “Sure is, and I have to say, our girls are playing much better than the guys right now.”
I concede a small chuckle, but internally, my stomach rejects the thought of laughing at anything Agent Ford has just said. Discouragement runs rampant inside my heart, and I scramble to recover the pieces of my spirit that are crumbling before my eyes. What kind of world did I wake up to? Perhaps it was naive of me, but I would have expected there to be huge strides forward in democracy, in unity, the end of war, the birth of human exploration on a cosmic scale. What I see now is frankly rather apathetic, superficial even, a demonstration of humanity at its most basal form. I give credit to the inhabitants of Earth for not annihilating themselves with atomic weapons, but it seems they’ve done everything short of it.
We turn into a cafe, and Agent Ford tells us to find a seat while she gets breakfast for us, something that dramatically halts my downward emotional spiral. There’s a mix of all sorts of smells in the air, and I can almost taste the sausage, the eggs and beans, a side of tomatoes, toast, and—most importantly—tea. A few minutes later, Agent Ford returns to our table and plops what looks like a glazed turd down in front of me.
“What in the hell is this?” I say, affronted by the gingham paper-wrapped ‘breakfast’ before me.
“It’s a donut,” she explains, oblivious to my offense as she takes a bite of her own turd.
“A donut? Where’s the sausage? Where’s the tea?”
Agent Ford looks up from her donut and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. “Oh, I could get some tea if you want.”
She begins to stand but I wave her off and grab the pastry with sad disappointment. “No, no, it’s too late. What has happened to your generation? What happened to the sanctity of a proper British meal? This makes me feel like I’m back in Ethiopia getting my tinned rations, except instead of the Italians, I’m battling indigestion.”
Agent Knight actually chuckles a little, and Agent Ford gives an apologetic shrug. “It’s an American thing, I think.”
I scoff. “Makes sense. Leave it to the Americans to find a way to ruin even a good meal.” As we eat, my curiosity begins to get the better of me, and I gain the confidence to ask more questions, despite my initial discouragement. “What about space travel? Have we made it to Mars? Farther?”
“Well, we made it to the Moon,” Agent Ford says. “The Americans, that is. We haven’t quite made it there ourselves. Though I heard there might be some cooperation for a possible return, and we might even get to Mars within the next decade or two.”
With that, I fall silent and keep to myself for the remainder of the meal.
My work was supposed to enable the human race to break the bonds keeping us on Earth. The whole reason I went under in the first place was to advance science in the hope that future generations might use it to better themselves. To know, now, that it was all in vain, that humanity chose a path completely foreign to my reasoning, well, it puts me in a very bad place, indeed.
~
After World War II, humanity swore to unify, to never again let any issue come between us. Sure, it wasn’t long before that vision of utopia faded, but there was at least the hope of globalized harmony. From what I see, though, that hope has shifted, or become lost in the noise of everyday life. We could have probably gone further in science and in exploration, but we’ve watered down our dreams with things like ICBMs, politics, Keeping up with the Kardashians, and something called kale chips, I believe.
Still, I guess the world didn’t end, as I might have predicted before going under. No matter how bad things seem to get, Earth keeps spinning. We overcome. We adapt. We thrive. Because that’s what we do. Because we far prefer evolution, however small, to its alternative.
Fading
Swim in memories,
slipping through cupped hands.
The softness of flesh, the warmth of breath,
Confined to mystical lands.
Do intertwined fingers exist?
Will my ears find a heartbeat outside these walls?
Art of a lonely mind,
Sculpted while reality stalls.
Heavy breaths…
Fall on fuzzy ears,
Blueprints of connection,
Washed away with tears.
Imprints of another body,
A ghost fading away.
Entangled limbs,
Just a tease of an imagined day.
Words are all that’s left,
The fingers that write them, are they real?
Fingers that were lost in my hair…
Memory, fiction, or will I once more feel?
Andrea,
I'm writing to you because I'm not going to your wedding so I'll probably never see you again. I mean, not that you would want to or care to. I'm not typically a skeptical person, but I know an afterthought when I see one. Or when I get a hand drawn wedding invite weeks after being ghosted.
You're probably wondering why I'm being so passive aggressive with you. I wondered that too, but then I asked myself if by the time you read this line, you reread the first paragraph because you proably didn't even detect any traces of affliction in my sloppy handwriting. Did you compare the script in the dozens of letters I wrote before? Do you notice how much deeper the indentation is in this one? There's no heart next to your name. There's no looping curves, or swirls, or little mindless doodles, or micro poems that once garnished my feelings for you.
Do little boys get drunk, Sis? I bet the korean suburbs never sounded so turbulent. But that's your flaw. I languished day after day in my emotions. I marinate in my own misfortune, because I'm society's decrepit, though I once had the potential to become something better.
Is that why you stopped replying after letter 4? When I told you sleeping is the blanket shielding me from my monsters did you look on because I still need a blanket, or because you were too weak to fight them off?
One thing I realized, while you were offline, was that I tend to blame others for my problems or associate my misfortunes or issues with uncontrollable realities. For example I never told you this, but I have a porn addiction. Not just any old used baggage either. My tastes are unique, because while someone on my phone is getting rawed, my head is thrown back and I can't catch my breath either. I'm in sync with the moans, with the thigh slapping, the final, definite orgasm, and then my screen goes black and I'm sticky and disatisfied, because I don't order samplers. I crave the full entree for myself.
So that's what I did. Porn became disgusting to me because it was forced, and I got no real pleasure out of other people's happiness.
I met a girl who when she looked at me I became a bowl of water and she was gonna lap all the fluid I possessed within me. I was going to give her everything I had and not care if she sold it to Goodwill, or mixed it with her own shit in a litterbox. I wanted to squeeze out every ounce of love I had on her face and on her breasts and then paint a future where her and I could forget about the would be lovers and risky messages we sent at odd hours to obscure genders. We would forget about the times we were scammed, the times we were stood up, or thrown down too forcefully, choked, raped.
I loved her those couple days. With every drop of sweat and every fire in my ass I loved her. The cellulite, the freckles, the big nose, everything you weren't. Everything pretty about you I sneered at and craved the opposite. And I loved her so much I didn't give any thought to my own needs. My skin wasn't speckled purple with her lips. My skin wasn't massaged by her fingers, wasn't carressed by her body, save for the moments our thighs or lips kissed. I didn't even come.
She zipped up, packed up, and I didn't even get a handshake good bye.
I realized that some time later while simmered in alcohol.
I realized, that I was a disgusting person, and no one wants to be branded with a rusty iron. No one wants to be associated with a defect, with the inept. You're a woman of God and that's were we came from, according to you. But somewhere in the recesses of your skull I'm a lower life form and you couldn't find a big enough cage for me so you adorted mission.
I was never the pure child you initially thought. I guess you realized that too.
Enjoy your wedding. Sorry I couldn't make it.
Signed,
Yours at one point.
