I am in your new apartment with my dad. You are telling him about how
proud you are of your new life and I go into your room to use the toilet
in there. Clothes are everywhere--covering the toilet and spilling out
from every imaginable crevice in your walls and furniture. I can hear
you saying how proud you were that you did your laundry and I am
overcome with sadness at this. I want to take care of you, and it takes
all of my self-control not to begin folding and organizing and cleaning
this messy hovel. I finally unearth the toilet but I hear you talking
now of how there is this storm inside of you and you are bleeding apart
inside and you bought a new gun, loaded it, and cocked it, just in case.
I sift through piles and piles of your clothes and belongings and
finally grasp the cool barrel of the gun as you yell through the door to
see why I am taking so long. I yell something back and slip the gun out
the patio door and under your workbench--I will pick it up from there
once I leave. I will keep you safe. I feel sick just having touched it,
and I wish I could have discharged it, but this loaded gun is too soon
and present to take my sweet time with it. I am crying at your life and
want to swoop in and fix it and be everything you need, but for now all I
can do is steal the firearms you are turning on yourself.
Awaken.
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