I Think it’s Good to Remember…

That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.

You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own. 
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.

And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
About me.
About him.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
characters.
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.

But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.

I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
That’s why.

My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.

You’re the Secret That I Desire, I Can’t Keep That to Myself

She blinked in and out of consciousness; the lights were bright, too bright, when her eyes opened, but the dark scared her. Still… she drifted. Once, when she half-woke, he and the doctor were standing over her prone body, discussing her recovery process. The conversation floated in and out of her ears, with snippets of words here or there, words like “weak” and “dangerous” and “caution;” Words that served to do little more than frighten her back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Once, she thought she felt his hand against her cheek, though it might have been a dream.

When she was well enough to leave the hospital, she spent six weeks on pseudo-bedrest, flitting between the bed, the sofa, physical therapy appointments, and long, steamy baths that left her feeling better each time she stepped out of them. He was attentive and concerned, but quiet, and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about the operation. He washed her hair during her baths, and escorted her to physical therapy. He cooked her meals for her, and snuggled close, but not too close or hard, to her in the evenings. They watched television shows together, though nothing too funny, or she would laugh and upset the stitches. He read her to sleep some nights, and others, she would drift quickly in the early evenings and be out until well past dawn the next day. Time passed, quick and slow and all at once. Continue reading