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“It’s okay,” he whispers. “You’ll be okay.” Truth is a jealous, vicious mistress that never ever sleeps, is what I don’t tell him. I’ll never be okay.
In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters. I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words, stringing limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.
His smile is laced with dynamite. “Go to sleep.” “Go to hell.” He works his jaw. Walks to the door. “I’m working on it.”
The world suddenly means something to me, the possibility of humanity means something to me, the entire universe stops in place and spins in the other direction and I’m the bird. I’m the bird and I’m flying away.
THIS CHAPTER
