Killing Samuel and Moving On

Letter Four

Dear Bronte,

I should've known better.
Should've seen the signs.

You were a good friend in your own way. You meant well, you always did.

But this is what I mean about religion. The dirty things it can do to you.
Religion, if followed blindly,
takes away the ability to think for yourself. Takes away the ability to form your own opinions.

You loved me, Bronte.
I could see it in your eyes.
Not the way Oscar or Phoebe or Selene thought they did.
You, I think,
were the first friend I made
that saw me as just that.
Friend.

But religion,
oh stupid religion.
You followed it without question
because that's what your parents taught you to do.
The church said jump and you only wondered how high.
Sheep.
That's what you are, Bronte.
Sheep.

It was the little things you did.
Like offering more masculine things
to fill my wavering mind.
I was grazing on pink when you decided I should return to blue.
There were no more makeup days
or talk of Stella.
She was gone, hidden away,
just as soon as she'd arrived.

It was the end of sophomore year
when we were preparing for our transition into the eleventh.
The two of us remaining close as we
lost minor acquaintances along the way.

Even so, I allowed myself to hope.
Hope that despite our differences,
you would be the one to stick around
for a long time.
I had hope that you would be the one
to be my friend even if I was
a little different.

It was foolish of me to hope.

Because religion, stupid religion,
already had it's hold on you.
Tight and firm you were
in Catholicism's locked jaws.
Its teachings obscured your reality.
For to love the "sinner" but hate the "sin" is a fallacy in itself.
One that you were always
too naïve to see.

I think I miss you the most sometimes because neither of us truly did anything wrong.
We were each following our own paths while hoping they would forever remain intertwined.

Alas, that was not Fate's design.

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