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How did I think people ruled the world? Did I really imagine it would be so simple? That I might control the fabric of society from the comfort of my boyfriend’s bedroom?
“You know, I think I might be the only one of us who doesn’t have daddy issues. I loved the shit out of my dad.”
“Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide. “In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.”
“Those who do not understand you,” I say softly, “will always doubt you.”
“Men,” she says, “are always so baffled by women’s clothing. So many opinions about a body that does not belong to them. Cover up, don’t cover up”—she waves a hand—“no one can seem to decide.”
“No, seriously,” he says, “like, is this what that is? Because I’ve never been in love before, so I don’t know if this is love or if I just have, like, food poisoning?”
I feel certain that my imagination is much more dangerous than any of his truths.
“Why am I always getting involved in other people’s personal shit? Why can’t I just mind my own business? Why can’t I just keep my mouth shut?” “You know,” I say to him, tilting my head slightly, “I’ve always wondered the same thing.” “Shut up.”
Kenji’s eyes widen, surprised, and he laughs. He nods at my face and says, “Aw, you’ve got dimples. I didn’t know that. That’s cute.”
Even so, a brick of something hot and horrible buries itself in my chest. Not jealousy, no. Inferiority. Inexperience. Naïveté.
I want to rip my heart out of my chest and throw it in our piss-filled ocean for all the good its ever done me.
It’s becoming too familiar, this feeling of inferiority. Too powerful. Every time I think I’ve made progress in my life I seem to be reminded of how much further I still have to go.
“Lena,” I say again, even more softly. “Really, you must know that your actions do nothing to endear you to me.” She stiffens. “Please go away,” I say, and quickly close the door between us.
And even when you’re ready to let go. When you’re ready to break free. When you’re ready to be brand-new. Loneliness is an old friend standing beside you in the mirror, looking you in the eye, challenging you to live your life without it.
There’s a strange kind of freedom in giving up. There’s a freedom in being angry.
He never allowed himself to feel, never allowed himself to hurt, never invited emotion into his life. He was under no obligation to anyone but himself—and it liberated him. His selfishness set him free.
My eyes have always been big and blue-green, miniatures of the globe we inhabit, but I’ve never before found them particularly interesting.
All I have to do is look at the mailing addresses to know that these letters predate The Reestablishment. They’ve all been sent to the attention of Evie and Maximillian Sommers. To a street in Glenorchy, New Zealand. New Zealand.
