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Dear... diary (?),
Fuck. This is so fucking weird, I don't know what the fuck I am doing. I feel like a fucking child. And now I've used the word fuck four times already. No wait, FIVE times. FUCK. Anyways, okay. Here I am. According to Brooklyn, my new and first ever therapist (—to be, she adds, but she's amazing), this could help me with coping.
I can't seem to understand why or how a piece of paper and some words I'm writing down, like the word fuck several times, is going to help me. But this is me giving it a try. I have a feeling this is going to be the first and last time I'm doing something like this because my hand is already hurting. And so is my head. You know, the one where the brain is in. Not the other one, you fucking weirdo.
This feels an awful lot like talking to myself and nobody can ever read this shit, but my hand is hurting because I talk too much. I could use this precious time to draw. But whatever, Brooklyn told me to write. I'm doing what she said. It's not like she ordered me to do it. It was more of a suggestion. To be honest, if she ordered me to do something, I think I'd do it anyways. Like probably right away. Don't tell her that though, I think I enjoy teasing her. We've only known each other for a week now, and I keep looking forward to our conversations. Don't tell her that either.
I recognize her you know, I'm pretty sure we used to live near each other as children, but not for long. We were forced to move away because mom, as a single mother, couldn't afford to pay for the rent any longer. Lizzie was way younger than us, a small child, and Brooklyn, a slightly older child, gave Lizzie a piece of chocolate. I saw it happening as I was watching over Lizzie, and it made me, also a child, smile.
I remember getting up from sitting in the grass all day, trying to add green to my drawings by using grass blades, when I saw I had stepped on a daisy. I felt so bad for the daisy, I plucked it, tried to fix the petals but it didn't work. They looked messy and some had fallen off. But I put it between the pages of my notebook to dry anyways, so that it would not be forgotten. I saw more daisies, I wanted to pluck some and give them to the girl that made my sister happy. I wanted to give them to Brooklyn, so I started plucking a whole bunch of them. Hoping Brooklyn would like them.
As I finished, I turned around and saw that her mother called her home for dinner. My stomach growled. I wasn't sure if it was because I was hungry and wasn't sure if my mom could manage and afford to make dinner for us, or because I was upset for not being quicker. That was that, I never saw her again. I never got to give her the daisies.
But then Brooklyn and I made eye contact through my bars, before we had even spoken. I felt an instant connection. I found the little girl again. And I silently promised to give her a daisy as soon as I got the chance. I'm not sure if Brooklyn remembers this story. If she does, she never told me. But I hope she'll one day remember. If not, I might tell her.
Her her her. God, Brooklyn.
It's weird you know, how fate works. It's shitty too sometimes, I mean, look where the fuck I've been for the past three years for absolutely no fucking reason. I must admit I'm afraid of telling Brooklyn, because if she doesn't believe me, I'll break. And I don't want to break, I cannot do that, in here.
But sometimes, perhaps, fate does good things too. Making Brooklyn and I, the little girl worth all the daisies I can pluck, meet again. Here, out of all possible places. It's insane. And I have a feeling this is just the beginning. Hell, maybe she'll even get me fucking out of here... well, that's a stretch Ethan. You fucking moron.
That was that. I wrote. This was sort of nice but awkward too. I might burn this. Or put it in betweeen my notebook with drawings so I can show this to Brooklyn and our future kids. Ah, yet another major stretch, get a hold of yourself Ethan.
— Ethan, out.
(It's been fifteen minutes since I put this piece of paper away but I need to add something. Please. Fucking fate or whatever. I want Brooklyn to remain in this shitty life of mine. Just do that for me. I can't give you a reason. It just feels right.)
▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀▀
and she did remain in his shitty life. but made it less shitty. and he was serious when he said that this was his first and final entry, it really was :).
