Deserving of More

Chapter 16: No Pressure

The cursor blinked on the blank page. And blinked. And blinked. I imagined it in a mocking tone.

"Ha. Writing. You call what you do writing? Please. You mostly stare at me. Talentless hack."

That wasn't wrong. Most of my writing did involve me staring at the blinking cursor, wondering if my word choices were satisfactory. And tea. So much tea. Hot and cold. Every flavor under the sun. I don't know why, but tea focuses me better than coffee. Coffee is for staying conscious; tea is for thinking. I have coasters on my desk for coffee and tea reasons. Both desks. Work and home.

I felt Lady's stare as I sipped some mango flavored iced tea. I glanced over to the ball of floof on the bed and she gave the slightest little chirp of a meow.

"Unless that's a suggestion for this chapter," I told her, "I don't wanna hear it." Her slow blink was more of a scowl as she settled back in to a nap.

How I wished I could join her. Things had been quite stressful lately, and I craved constant sleep.

I'd decided to go to school. Yes, my old ass was a student again. Online. And what degree was I pursuing? Creative Writing. As if a piece of paper would legitimize me somehow. Make my talent real to me. As opposed to everyone who all ready praised the words I managed to string together.

I sighed at the cursor again.

I hadn't been wrong. About my audience. Those who followed closely were devouring what I was putting out. I know some thought it to be pure fiction, but those who knew me on any sort of personal level knew differently. They knew this was my interpretation of everything that happened and was continuing to happen, broken down in a way for any person to understand. Slowly, slowly, it was working. Very slowly.

It was working, yes. But it didn't *always* work. Not everyone chose to see what I was presenting. Some saw but refused to accept it.

"Well you don't know for sure because you weren't there."

"These are all just theories."

And my personal favorite:

"Everyone grieves differently."

That last one was particularly infuriating because it was apparently applicable to Veronica, with her flat speeches, saccharin forum posts, and general attention-seeking. But not Mike. He was still taking crap for how he grieved and was subject to all sorts of verbal bashing. I had not been particularly subtle in my disdain for this practice and had come under verbal fire myself. Cara tended to put herself out more than I did, though. And I was grateful for that. Being yelled at tends to stir up my demons and takes me to bad places. Plus, I would rather be crucified than expose Grace to the vultures.

All that bothered me, yes. But even those who saw the truth and understood it bothered me. In a vastly different way.

Broaching the subject was difficult by itself, because I never knew what sort of response I would get. Loyalists made me sigh and shrug. Futile to pursue changing their minds. They were resigned to their fate by their own decisions. But those who chose The Resistance broke my heart. Because for them to see and accept everything meant shattering them. They had the same illusions I'd had and I knew how it felt when they were dissolved. The guilt had nearly ended my life. As much as I welcomed new members into The Resistance, I also hated it. I hated having to intentionally hurt people I considered friends. It didn't seem right. Having to hurt them to help them.

It had gotten to a point where I could tell who would stick with The Resistance. Those who felt guilty. Or sickened. Or angered. Those who claimed to be in shock, and only in shock, tended to be fence-sitters or worse. But the sick and the angry stayed.

"How could I not have seen this for so long?"

"I don't want to be on the wrong side anymore."

And my personal favorite:

"Let's burn her to the ground!"

I always apologized to them. For taking a hammer to the house of mirrors in their hearts. They all would say the same thing. And I knew I had them.

"I would rather be hurt by the truth than be comfortable in a lie."

My writing had even made its way to people who weren't soldiers, and they too could see what I was trying to convey.

"Reading about her made me physically nauseous. I hope she burns."

Disdain for Veronica was growing. And part of it was the Queen herself. She was digging her own hole. Planting seeds of doubt in some of her own supporters.

Her newfound "expertise" in demons and the plague and their symptoms was catching up to her. During one of her talks, she'd had the audacity to place cause for Chester's death on an alcohol relapse, and subsequent shame. The man had relapsed in his life, and was familiar with everything that came with them. He'd fought and struggled with relapses for forever. He knew how to come back from them. But this time it was somehow different? Doubtful. And people saw that. She also shared an article about loss which featured a bit about accepting an apology which would never be received. As if someone plagued enough to end it all purposefully sets out to hurt everyone around them. I knew first hand that wasn't the case, and it angered me.

"Apologize to me for your suffering!" It seemed to yell. It sounded like something my mother would have said.

I wasn't the only angry one, and I watched a ripple pass through the masses. It certainly wasn't enough to convert them all, but it was very much a piece of ammunition to be retained for persuasive purposes.

It pained me to have to think that way. That I had store away every word from anyone who spoke to me, so that I could recycle it into words of my own.

I hated that this was like this. That it had to be this way. That I had to hurt people I cared for. As if I enjoyed having to do this. I think some of them thought that I did enjoy it. That I got some sort of sick pleasure from such destruction. From the knowledge I foisted onto others, breaking them. It was my burden first, you know? I carried it all on my own and never said a word. But now, I am accused of dabbling in theories and demonizing an innocent widow. I wish things were different. In so many ways. But the reality is this. Inescapable this.

Everything pained me. Aches and pains from the plague. My broken heart. The gashes in my soul. The half-healed cuts of my own relapse. The butterfly tattoo on my chest hurt all the time. Down my sternum and straight through my ribcage back to my shoulder blades. As if I'd been run through with a sword. Most of the time, I would much prefer that. 

"Are you working on another chapter?"

"When is the next chapter coming?"

"Have you thought about the next chapter?"

"Do you think you'll have another chapter soon?"

Here you go, then. Another chapter. Written in the spaces between the stress and the fatigue. The tears and the pain. The homework and quizzes and projects. Powered by vodka and nicotine and caffeine. Pressed forward by guilt and notions of letting them all down if I don't speak in a timely enough manner.

I can hear you clamoring for more.

When the next breath enters my lungs. That's where more comes from.

I know, I know.

"No pressure."

Of course not.

And so the cursor blinks again.