scarred.

{6} talks.

{6}

S I X  |  T A L K S

“Years. It’s been years since I’ve cried.” I told you as we sat outside.

We were sitting in one of the two gazebos that dotted the spacious backyard of the orphanage. It was my favorite part of St. Joseph’s—the freedom we had outside. There was a playground with swing sets for the younger children along with sports equipment. Far in into the tended yard sat a wooden shed in need of a paint job—it held baseballs, bats, soccer balls, footballs, and inflatable pools. The staff of St. Joseph’s had made sure the kids would have plenty of chances to exercise and enjoy the outdoors, even in New York City.

“Years? You’ve got to be kidding,” You said, your eyes almost wide in amazement. “I thought… I just assumed…” You tried to say what you wanted to, but the words just couldn’t leave your lips.

“You’d think someone who’s suicidal would cry a lot,” I stated for you, “I know.” My voice faded out as I softly played with my hands.

We were sitting close, but not too close. The scent of rain-covered dirt was in the air as the drops continued to free fall from the dark clouds above. I don’t know why you had chosen to sit outside with me. I guessed that it was because you liked nature. You seemed like that type of person.

You softly nodded, looking down at your lap as if you felt guilty, “Yeah.”

I nodded softly too, not knowing what else to say. After a few seconds of silence between us, I looked up at you, “I visited someone today.”

You looked up at me, a small smile forming on your lips for me. “Who’d you visit?” You asked, your eyes bright and lively as you waited for a pleasant answer. But the answer was probably going to shock you.

“A man. I call him Stanley. He lives in… a facility.” My words didn’t flow—they were choppy. Sometimes my thoughts grew so jumbled that they influenced my speech, making it short and choppy. I bit my lip, wondering if you were going to get bored of my talking and leave me soon.

I noticed your smile fade ever so slightly, “Is Stanley a nice guy?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Oh,” You said, seemingly searching for the right words to say to me, “Does he live in an orphanage like this?”

“No.” I shook my head again.

I didn’t know how you were putting up with me and my short answers. I seemed like the most boring person on Earth.

You smiled patiently at me as you looked deep into my eyes, “Does he make you happy?”

You were getting the wrong idea.

“Stanley is my—my father.” I stated, not looking at you directly. I felt like my mouth wasn’t fully in my control, like it was a challenge to formulate words. “I don’t like to call him that because he—he hurt me. I—I don’t like him.”

I stuttered and stuttered.

“Jill, I—” You started in a soft voice, but I interrupted you.

“He’s in p—prison.” I stuttered again.

I felt something warm on my skin, and it wasn’t until I looked down that I found your hand on mine.

“You shouldn’t visit him if you don’t like him,” Your said, a soft furrow in your brows, “People should only be around people they like. It’s the good presences that make us happier in general. That’s why we all have friends that make us laugh and feel good. The people we don’t like, we avoid.”