The Firefly Field Theory

|11| Resistance Is Useless: Part IV

Hey Everybody!

First off I'd like to Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for sticking around, and connecting with my work. If I could tell you how much it means, I swear I'd write another book about it :) You are all special to me.

Also here's a confession, I cried when I wrote down this part. I know that's lame. But yeah...This also happens to be THE LONGEST part I've posted so far, so let me know what you think and drop a vote if you like it.

ENJOY~

PART IV:

I would love myself forever if I could deny what I feel right now. I think it’s because of the razor sharp honesty I have conditioned myself with, that now I can’t lie to myself, no matter how hard I try. I’ve done this for so long the painfully sincere response seems innate. I think I am to blame, because sometimes you don’t really want the truth. Lies work pretty well in those times.

I am nervous.

The kind of nervous that feels like excitement but it’s not. Where your stomach feels like an air balloon dangling in your hollow abdomen. The nervousness, equipped with frigidity is almost on the brim of turning into fear. It’s not like my hands shake or I go into a nervous breakdown, it’s more of a feeling were I’m chocked up and restless, were I stop thinking and start twitching. Where I become kinda like Annie, emotive and charged. But Annie’s ten I’m eighteen, where is my resolve?

Mom, is gonna be home by seven, that piece of information rings in my ears. I don’t know what I’m going to do. What she’s going to say. What I’m going to say. I have so many questions that they bump into each other, looking for answers in the crowd inside my head. All the while, Z tries to explain the geography of Pakistan to me. To no avail, though. When he went upstairs, he returned with two things I’ll never comprehend. One was a map of the East and the other was his unexplainably shifty-cheery mood. He’s most definitely bipolar.

Now he’s got the map set out on the carpet in the living room, and he’s desperately trying to inject the slightest trace of a layout into my bonehead. It’s not working.

“Okay, just…wipe that look of your face first, okay. How am I supposed to explain this if you look like your dead?”

“I feel dead.”

He drops the pencil onto the map and the tip strikes the Arabian Sea, “Annie sweetie, lower the volume please.” I don’t think she heard him, she’s sitting on one of the sofas her excited limbs bouncing of the foamy base as she waddles through air and Wall-e, Z and I are sitting legs crossed around a giant map on the carpet; he lets out a sigh and then picks up the pencil again. But before he can take another shot at it, Bravo enters with a tray clutched across her torso, “I made tea.”

Oh that’s just great isn’t it; I’ve just burnt my throat for you and pulled an underage traumatized little boy into doing it too; so now you cover it up with a soothing cup of tea. I doubt it’s soothing anyway. She places the tray over the people’s Republic of China, and sits down with us. Passing the tea cups to us she asks, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to explain the map to her.” Z blows the steam hovering over his cup, with the exhaled air of another defeated sigh.

“And it’s not going to well,” Wall-e adds. His voice comes out gruff and throaty, like a cat hocking out a hairball. I’m sure if I speak up I’ll sound the same. Bravo scoots over to my side of the map, and plants her hands over it. One of them lands on India’s belly, the other over Afghanistan’s chest. The gap in between her spread out hands contains Pakistan.