Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

All the stories are about someone I don’t know. That I never knew and never will. This version of Mom is theirs, not mine.

It’s ruined. You’re ruining your beautiful life. It’s ruined. It’s been ruined. You ruined it. You want to feel something. You feel too much. You. You hate everything you feel. You need to feel something different. Something louder.

You should light yourself on fire.

Part of me is flattered, because I love attention. We have that in common, the demon and me. I like being the favorite. This part of me feels an allegiance to it. A kinship.

I remember flirting with Ethan at Veronica’s launch party. Lucky to live with scars, I said. And he said, Better to live without. I’m not totally sure. Who would I be without my scars? Who would my sisters be?

Remembering is not always a light shone into darkness. Sometimes it’s a claw reaching out and dragging you back.

I think it’s just easier to call someone crazy than it is to admit that they could be right. Easier to call someone crazy than to confront the nuance of their circumstance, than to accept the callous cruelty that exists in the world we live in, the evil out there that revels in our suffering.