February 14, 1955

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February 14, 1955.

     I went silent. I know. I needed some time to heal—-and unfortunately, this journaling wasn't offering the support I needed. It was just filled with my fake scenarios and dreams. Each of this pages scripted from edge to edge with my delusional ramblings.

    I needed help—-so that's what I sought out.

   I was so far submerged in my own grief for the loss of Oscar, that I continued to think he was still alive… That he'd laugh at each of my jokes… Each of my debacles. And at the end of the day, we'd have the same dish—-steak and lavish wines.

     But truthfully?

    We had been on a date with each other, walking through Brooklyn, hand in hand, prideful in ourselves… In our love.

    Some jackass, who hadn't supported it, stepped in.

    Everything happened so damn fast.

    Before I knew it, the guy had beat Oscar's head in with a car part. A muffler maybe? I'm not sure… I'm still quite fuzzy on the details.

     The guy had ran, like a coward.

    And I was left in the wake—-forced to see Oscar's blood and brains pour out onto the concrete below us.

    I need to heal.

   I need to accept that Oscar's gone… and he's never coming back.

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