We Are All the Same in the Dark

by Julia Heaberlin

Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination.

The truth is, I’m not brave. I’m not even that willing. I’m just more afraid of one thing happening than the other.

“I never knew you to be surprised at the vile nature of human beings,” Finn had said from the bed, while he watched me strip off my uniform. “We kill indiscriminately, always have, always will. People we love, people we don’t know, sisters, brothers, wives, children, best friends, neighbors, rats, snakes. We kill for fun out of car windows and deer blinds, for fifteen minutes of fame, because a bumper sticker says Zero Percent Republican, because the TV is too fucking loud. I’d say tomorrow will be different, but it will be the same.”

Loving dark men is a seesaw. They never tell you everything. You always wonder if the tiny red spot on a shirt is really from a spaghetti dinner like they claim. But then they put a bird back in a nest. They pull a drowning kid out of the water. And that’s all it takes. The spaghetti is not blood.

I’ve figured out that crying is almost as unique a print as a voice or the pad of a finger. Wailing, bawling, keening, mewling, moaning, sobbing—you never know what’s going to explode from someone’s throat. Large men with deep voices can squeak. The smallest men can let out the most guttural roars.

Organizing my things in a bathroom soothes me.