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two updates in a row?????? wow
can we get to 3k comments and 600 votes before the next chapter? even though i appreciate the spamming of the alphabet (hey, engagement is engagement), i'd also love to see more theories and reflections on my writing!! i really love it when you guys comment your thoughts while you're reading
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APRIL 15th, 1997
When I fall into my bed, I realize how easy it is to forget.
And I wish the world worked so that when something is forgotten, it just disappears. But it doesn't, of course. All the things that will never be gone simply lurk. They're patient, the way death is. They know you'll eventually remember, so they wait until you're all theirs again. They let you have your moments of bliss, because they know you can't escape.
So I lay in bed. I don't bother drawing the curtains of my four poster bed, as it's past three in the morning and I doubt the other girls are awake. I don't even slip under my covers. I didn't even brush or change my clothes before dropping onto the bed.
There's nothing for my mind to do but go back. Go back to that day at the mausoleum, that conversation with my mother. She'd said that she couldn't bring herself to tell me, but maybe my father could.
And I'd been confused. My father? Did she mean the man she slept with, or the man we'd gone to see?
I'd asked her that. She told me that she isn't in contact with my blood father anymore, that she hasn't been since the day they'd met. She'd hesitated, and she'd added tentatively that if I really wanted, perhaps she could find him again. Only perhaps.
I shook my head definitively, even if I didn't know the answer. Because I didn't. I don't want to meet him, because I miss not knowing he existed. But if I'm not even an ounce of Father, then I want to know who I am exactly.
What makes up my blood.
No, she'd said, not your blood father. Your real father.
And I didn't know how to respond, because that sentence alone had felt so ironic. Not my blood father, my real father. Doesn't the blood make him my real father? The thought filled me with guilt, a gnawing, rotting feeling eating me inside out.
One of his memories, she'd clarified.
When we went home, the first thing I did was paw through that velvet blue box of vials, looking for the one she'd described. Your fourteenth birthday, Mother had said, and the look on her face was drawn with more guilt than I'd ever seen on a person before. You'll be angry with me when you see it.
