I want to cry, and have every right to do so, but shame won’t let me. It stitches my sorrow and zips it up shut, so that it is sealed away for everyone‘s sake. No one would deny me a moment of weakness. But will they laugh once they find that I knew fully well the dangers I had put myself in, and still I proceeded with no caution, or plan. Harm was in the horizon, lining it red. I walked directly to it, expecting that it would morph into something benevolent. I have a way of thinking Hell will turn into an amusement park, just as I set foot in it, because I set foot in it.
Writing has become an indispensable outlet. It is all I have, and all I want. The day does not have a heavy feel to it, when I know it can all be recorded, saved as a threat against anyone who would dare shut me up. Everything becomes bearable. It is all neatly nailed to a cross I am carrying on my back. I trek along, kicking up small balls of dust, which will one day become a hurricane of immense force and power.
My father drinks, and I cannot sleep until alcohol has weighed him down into a slumber. The pressure put on his conscious mind will keep him down for hours, eventually. Until then, I am aware of everything, wide awake, and fully energized. I watch him from the corner of my eye. I listen to every movement, and know the meaning by the duration, strength, and volume of the sound. I am Artemis with her bow pulled taut, prepared for a release. I protect the little animals inside me, defenseless, and vulnerable. Horses are in line, flexing each well-defined muscle. The drums beat a haunting, ancient song. Echo here, and echo there. It is the two of shared blood against each other, obvious to none, but us.