Текст книги "A Lover's Lament "
Автор книги: K. L. Grayson
Соавторы: B. T. Urruela
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
“Slow Dancing In A Burning Room” – John Mayer
“KATIE?”
My eyes snap open and I find Wyatt propped up on his elbows, watching me. The sheet is bunched around his hips and the muscles of his abdomen twitch under the weight of my stare. My eyes rake over his half-naked body and I will myself to feel something. At some point during the night I finally gave up trying to fall asleep and I moved to a chair across the room.
“Sorry if I woke you up,” he says, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. “Is everything okay?”
Oh my gosh, I can’t do this. I can’t hurt him. My arms and legs feel weak, and my heart is beating so hard that it could possibly fly right out of my chest. Shit. I suck in a sharp breath. “No¸” I blurt.
Wyatt’s brows furrow and I know he’s waiting for more, but that one word is all I can seem to get out. Guilt crawls up my throat, threatening to make itself known—the same guilt that could potentially keep me from doing what needs to be done.
Wyatt flings the covers off and moves to get out of bed. Urgently, I hold up a trembling hand. “Please,” I beg, shaking my head. Wyatt’s eyes widen and his lips part, and the look of panic on his face nearly brings me to my knees. “Please.”
I love Wyatt. I’ll always love Wyatt. But he deserves so much better. He deserves a woman that will love him, heart and soul. A woman that will open herself up and give him everything that life has to offer. I’m not that woman. Not for Wyatt—probably not for anyone.
And it’s the thought that Wyatt deserves better that pushes the words from my mouth. “I can’t...” My voice cracks, and I look up at the ceiling and squeeze my eyes shut, a feeble attempt to gain some sort of control. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“What?” With two long strides, he’s kneeling in front of me. “You can’t do what?”
I blow out a slow breath, reminding myself that I’m doing the right thing, even if it’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done … well, second hardest thing. The first was burying my father. Okay … third hardest thing. The second was getting over my first love.
“Katie?” His pleading voice is thick and raw. “Look at me.” He cups my face in his warm hands, forcing me to look at him. “You can’t do what?” His blue eyes are swirling with insecurity and concern.
Just say it. Set him free, Katie. “Us.”
Wyatt sighs, his shoulders drop and he nods at me with a look of understanding. Uh, what? Did he not hear what I just said? “You’ve been under a lot of stress, and I know I haven’t been making it eas—”
“No,” I interrupt.
“Hear me out, okay?” He slides his hand in mine and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I know I haven’t been what you’ve needed me to be since the funeral, and I hate myself for it.” I shake my head vigorously, but he keeps talking. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to handle you. And then when you shut down, when you closed yourself off, I-I froze. It scared the hell out of me, and instead of pushing you to talk about things and comforting you, I abandoned you.” A pained look overtakes his face.
“You didn’t abandon me,” I quickly argue. Okay, yes, he did give me space, essentially acting as though nothing happened and everything was fine when it most certainly wasn’t fine, but there is no way in hell I’ll let him take the blame for this. “This is com—” Wyatt pushes a finger against my lips, effectively shutting me up.
“I did. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed, and every single time you told me you were fine, I just accepted it and moved on, knowing that you weren’t. I should’ve insisted that you open up and talk to me, and I wish I could go back and do it over again, but I can’t. What I will do is promise you that I’ll never act like that again. I’ll promise to be there for you, no matter what.” Anguish rolls off of him, slamming into me, and my chest physically aches. Fuck. “I let you down and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His words cut through me like a knife, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. “Stop,” I beg. “Please stop. We both could’ve handled the whole situation differently, but this has nothing to do with that. This– ” Shit. Pressure builds behind my eyes, and I blink several times to try and keep the tears at bay. This is so fucking hard.
My hand fists in my lap and I fight the urge to look away, but that would be the cowardly thing to do and he deserves so much more than that. I take a deep breath and blow it out. “My feelings have changed, Wyatt.”
His brows dip low and he drops my hand. “What do you mean?”
“I can’t marry you.”
A vein pops out in Wyatt’s neck, and in one swift move he stands up and takes a step back. “Are you serious? I-I don’t understand.”
Pushing from the chair, I take a step toward him. I’ve never seen him look so helpless and lost, and I want nothing more than to wrap him in my arms and tell him that everything will be okay. But I can’t. “I don’t want to hurt you, Wyatt.”
“You don’t want to hurt me.” His gravelly voice drips with disbelief. “What the fuck does that even mean, Katie?”
Spinning on his heel, Wyatt turns and paces the length of my room with his hands planted firmly on his hips. When he makes his second path, he stops in front of me. His blue eyes are full of unshed tears, and the sight nearly breaks my heart in two. “Despite what we just talked about, what did I do? Tell me what I did. Was I not attentive enough?” He steps forward and nudges me back. “Did I say the wrong things, or take you to the wrong places?” His voice goes from raw to hard and unyielding. “Tell me what I did!” he shouts.
“Nothing,” I blurt, pushing him back a step. “You didn’t do anything, don’t you get that? This isn’t about you, Wyatt, it’s about me. I’m not in love with you anymore, and you deserve better than that.” I look down. A sense of calm washes over me and my shoulders sag in relief. “I deserve better than that.” My voice is softer and more reserved, because I can feel it in my heart that I’m doing the right thing. He may hate me now, but someday … someday when he’s had time to think, time to move on, he’ll understand.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m sorry, Wyatt.” Our eyes meet and I rest my hand over my chest. “I didn’t see this coming. It crept up on me, and I think that if you look at it—really look at it—that you’ll—”
“Fuck!” His loud voice thunders through the room, and I flinch. In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard him yell like that, and I hate that I’m the cause. “I don’t want to look at it, Katie! I love you.”
He shoves a finger into my chest and I stumble back. Catching myself on the dresser, I stand tall, determined not to back down. Regret flashes across Wyatt’s face. Cautiously, he reaches for me, but I step back.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. I know that he wasn’t trying to push me, but I don’t want him touching me. I’m too open, too raw, and frankly, I’m not sure what it will do to me.
“I just want you.” His words are laced with conviction, his eyes shining with passion, and I don’t doubt for one second that he means it. “I want the life we’ve talked about, the life we’ve planned. I want the white picket fence and the tire swing in the front yard.” Slowly, he steps toward me. My feet stay planted as I listen to him beg me for all the things my younger self promised him years ago. “I want those three kids. Two boys and a girl, remember?”
I nod feebly and he takes another step in my direction.
“Don’t you see that in your future?” Ever so gently, Wyatt cups my face in his hands. “Because I do. I see all of that ... with you.”
It sounds amazing … all of it. And I hope that one day I’m lucky enough to experience everything that he’s talking about. But as the words fall from his mouth—as I picture it all in my head—I don’t see it with him, and that brings on a whole new wave of guilt. “Wyatt.” His name is but a whisper, packed full of more emotion than an entire fucking romance novel, and I can tell by the stunned look on his face that he understood the meaning loud and clear.
Wyatt’s eyes widen and he steps back. The passion in his eyes fades, quickly replaced with frustration and pain. “Damn it, Katie!” Spinning around, he moves across the room. A low growl rumbles from his chest as he slides his fingers through his thick blond hair, tugging at the strands.
This is not at all how I saw this going. Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected, but I thought that maybe I could get him to see that this is for the best. I know now that never would’ve happened because tonight I broke his heart, and I know all too well how that feels. How could I ever expect him to understand—let alone someday forgive me—when I’m walking away after promising him forever? I’m still not sure I could ever forgive the man who broke my heart, so why should I expect anything different from Wyatt?
Unconsciously, my thumb rolls my engagement ring around my finger. I look down, watching as the diamond catches the light, scattering specks of color around the room. For the first time since we got engaged over a year ago, the white gold princess-cut ring feels foreign on my finger. The weight of the diamond, like the weight of my guilt, sits heavily, and I slip it off while at the same time letting go of the lie that I’ve been living this past year. It’s cathartic in a way that I can’t even explain. In a sense, I feel lighter. However momentary it may be, the monsters inside of me have calmed, and for once I feel like I can actually breathe.
A low grunt catches my attention. Looking up, I find that Wyatt has put on his jeans, and I watch him tug his t-shirt over his head. He drops to the bed, his elbows on his knees and palms covering his face, rubbing it roughly several times. Please don’t break, I think to myself. You deserve so much more than the broken girl that I’ve become.
Slowly, I move toward him. His face tilts up, his glassy eyes finding mine, and it’s impossible to miss the tearstains on his cheeks. Instantly, my nose burns—the kind of burn that comes right before I turn into a blubbery mess of tears and snot. We watch each other for several seconds, and when I’m confident that I have some control over my emotions, I push the ring into the palm of his hand.
Wyatt looks down at where I have my hand wrapped around his, and then his eyes dart back up to mine. “You are an amazing person, Wyatt. You are kind and generous”—I swallow hard past the lump in my throat—“and smart and funny, and I am lucky to have had you in my life. One of these days you are going to make someone very, very happy. And I don’t deserve your friendship, but I’m selfish enough to ask for it, because the thought of not having you in my life is terrifying.” Wyatt’s jaw clenches, a fresh batch of tears collecting in his eyes, and I suck in a shuddery breath. “You may not believe it right now, but I never meant to hurt you. You were my very first friend and your happiness means the world to me, which is why I need to do this.” Wyatt’s lips pinch into a thin line and I know that he has something to say, but I need to get this out or I may never get the chance again. “My only regret is that I didn’t do it sooner”—he flinches and I rush to explain—“because I knew months ago that my feelings had changed. But I was greedy. I was scared to lose you … scared to lose your strength and your friendship. I see now how unfair that was to you, and for that I’m so sorry.”
Wyatt’s chin trembles, the movement so slight that I almost miss it. Then in the blink of an eye, his face transforms, almost as though he’s slipped on a mask. He wrenches his hand out from under mine and stands to his full height, shoulders back and chin up. “I don’t want the damn ring.” He shoves it at my chest, and I scramble to catch it before it falls to the floor. “And I don’t want your friendship, Katie. I don’t want your apologies, I don’t want your fucking excuses and I sure as hell don’t want you.” Brushing past me, he rushes toward the door. Gripping the knob, he flings the door open and then comes to a dead stop.
“You know what?” Twirling around, he stalks toward me. His cerulean eyes are nearly all black and they’re burning with hatred—and quite possibly disgust. I stand frozen as he rips the ring from my hand. “I do want it. I want to destroy it,” he seethes, “the same way that you’ve destroyed me. And then I’m going to throw it away, along with every fucking memory of you.”
Speaking isn’t an option. I have no defense, no argument and I certainly have no right to beg for absolution. My lungs ache as I fight to suck in air. I broke him. I actually broke him.
“Don’t give yourself that much credit.” Holy shit! I’ve got to stop doing that. “It’s going to take a lot more than you to break me.”
“Wyatt—”
“No!” he growls, his eyes bouncing around my face. I feel like he’s looking for the girl he fell in love with, but he’s not going to find her. She died months ago.
With a heavy sigh, Wyatt turns and walks out of my room without a backward glance. Seconds later, I hear the front door slam shut.
He’s gone. My hand reaches for my chest, ready to rub the ache I felt the last time I lost a man that I loved. But the pain isn’t there like it was before, so I drop my hand to my side.
I stand motionless in my room, waiting for regret to smash into me. I clench and unclench my hands, expecting them to feel numb and tingly, but they don’t. There are no tears bursting to break free, and my heart isn’t threatening to bounce from my chest. The only thing I feel is a sense of calm that I didn’t know I possessed.
Okay, I obviously haven’t given it enough time. It’s coming, I know it’s coming…
Feeling surprisingly at peace, I walk into the kitchen, passing right by Wyatt’s running shoes sitting by the back door. I’ll have to worry about those later because this is just the calm before the storm. Any minute now I’m going to go into full panic mode.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, I twist off the cap and chug half of it. My gaze drifts toward the clock and my jaw nearly drops. It’s only four o’clock in the morning … no wonder I’m fucking exhausted. Well, that was about the shittiest possible way to start the day. On the plus side, my day can’t get much worse. I hope.
Hooking my foot around the leg of a chair, I tug it out from under the table and plop onto it. With an exaggerated sigh, I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting a sense of nothingness wash over me. My body is relaxed, not an ounce of tension to be found. My pulse, calm and steady, creates a gentle thud in my chest, and my breaths are slow and easy. I want to feel bad, or guilty, or something, but I can’t because I know I did the right thing. I just wish that it didn’t take breaking Wyatt’s heart to feel this sense of relief.
With languid movements, I sit up, chug the rest of my water and look aimlessly around the kitchen. Normally, I wouldn’t head over to mom’s to take care of the horses for another hour or so, but I’m wide awake and a sunrise run with Mac is just what I need.
Pushing myself up, I toss the empty water bottle in the trash and then I turn to grab the wine glasses left out from last night. My eyes catch on the stack of mail sitting at the edge of the table and I sift through the envelopes, sliding each one to the side just enough so I can see the next. Phone bill, utility bill, car payment …
Everything inside of me stills. My heart literally stops beating before kicking into overdrive, and I slowly drag the tattered envelope out from the middle of the stack.
Tilting my head to the side, I examine the messy penmanship of Sergeant Devin Ulysses Clay. My finger runs a deliberate path along the worn edges and a slow smile builds, tugging at the corners of my mouth. The urge to rip it open is strong and I bite down on my bottom lip, trying to determine whether or not I should read it. A tiny shiver runs through me, and I decide that, for once in my life, I’m going to do something without overthinking it.
So what if I pissed him off? So what if the hope blossoming in my chest completely contradicts the bitterness I still feel toward him? Scooping up the envelope, I toss it in my messenger bag, along with my notepad and pen. I run to my room, quickly changing into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and then I slip on my coat, grab my keys and bag, and dart out the door.
“Be Still” – The Fray
A THIN FOG BLANKETS THE rugged landscape, which is lit only by the dull glimmer of the moon. My hair whips around my head, the cool air stinging my cheeks, and for the first time in a long while, I feel the urge to smile.
Mac breezes past a cluster of familiar trees, and on instinct, I duck my head for three beats to avoid the branches I know are hanging low enough to knock me in the face. Slowing down would be the smart thing to do, but Mac loves to run just as much as I do. Plus, I’ve been riding this path my entire life, and I’m certain we could take it backward and blind without so much as a stumble.
The soft glow of the sun peeks out over the horizon and I push Mac faster. I’ve been making this ten-minute trek to the edge of my parents’ property nearly every morning since being cleared by the doctor, because it’s the only place I seem to find solace. As a child, my dad would bring me out here to watch the sun rise, as a teenager, Devin and I claimed it as ‘our spot,’ and as an adult, I come here to drown in the memories of the two of them.
Mac slows to a trot when we hit the clearing, and I know we’ve made it in time. I tug on the reins and we come to stop at our usual spot next to an old oak tree that sits several feet from the edge of the creek. Orange and red hues kiss the earth, and it’s in this brief moment, when everything is neither dark nor light, that my anger and sadness seem to fall away. Everything around me is quiet, and I tilt my head up to the sky, close my eyes, and breathe in the crisp morning air. The fresh rays of sunlight should hold promises of a new day, but for me they’ve been a reminder of what I’ve lost—until today. Something inside of me has changed. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but there’s a tiny sliver of hope that wasn’t there before.
My face warms as the minutes tick by, and only when I’m certain that the sun has risen do I open my eyes. Twisting, I slide off Mac, walk to the oak tree and plop down. That damn letter has been burning a hole in my bag since I ran out of the house, so I waste no time pulling it out. Unable to wait a second longer, I slide my finger under the lip of the envelope, rip it open and pull the letter out. Tiny smudges of dirt are scattered around the edges of the stark white paper, and I immediately picture Devin sitting down after a long day of work, trying to decide how to reply to his best friend-turned-lover-turned … nothing. My stomach churns at the thought of what he could have written, and for a split second I wonder if I’m better off not reading it at all.
Will his words give me peace? Did he decide to come clean about what happened, or did he simply write to finally tell me goodbye? I don’t want to care, but that last thought doesn’t sit well with me.
Screw it, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter what he wrote. His words won’t change a thing. Because when it comes right down to it, he still left, my dad is still gone and no words or misplaced apologies are going to fix either of those things. And with that last little pep talk—depressing as it may be—my trembling hands unfold the letter.
Dear Katie,
Wow, well my skin is still buzzing! When I saw your name on the envelope, I just about had a stroke. In fact, I think I reread those two words about a hundred times just to make sure it was really you. The address isn’t the same—I’ll take that as a good sign, although your old address will be etched in my memory for life.
So you found me through the pen pal program, huh? And through a therapist, no less. The world truly does work in mysterious ways. I’ve thought about you often over the years and always hoped you were doing well. And as mad as you may be at me, hearing from you is one of the best things to happen to me in a long time, which I guess is pretty stupid to say considering how things ended. But you have to believe me, Katie, I never wanted things to be that way. You know I loved you. Those moments we spent together are the best memories I have. You don’t even know how many tough times those memories have gotten me through. We were inseparable, you and I … partners in crime. I don’t want you to think I take that lightly.
I had my reasons for leaving, reasons that are probably best left unsaid. I wouldn’t expect you to even begin to understand what was running through my head at the time. You know what I was going through back then, and at the time we were just two people in two very different places. But I digress … that is not what I wanted this letter to focus on at all.
I’m so incredibly sorry to hear about your father, and I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through. I know how close you two were, and just reading your words makes me ache so much for you, Katie. I’m just so very sorry.
How is your mom handling everything? And Bailey?
You know my pops walked out on us when I was just a kid and how devastated I was when he disappeared. I’m not trying to compare my situation to yours, not by a long shot. I only mean to say that after going through what I did with all of that, struggling with it like I did but still knowing he was alive and well at least, I can’t even begin to understand how you feel right now. I want you to know that, no matter what happened in the past, I will always be here for you. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or just rip into someone, I’m here. I even have email. You could totally bitch me out on there anytime you want!
God, so the man that hit you was a soldier? I wish I could say I’m surprised, but there is an abundance of substance abuse in the military. There are a lot of people numbing themselves, and I can’t say that I blame them. When we lose people day in and day out, watch our friends die, and take lives that we don’t want to take, how else are we supposed to cope? I’ve lost so many friends over here that I’m beginning to lose count. Just three months ago, my best friend was one of them. Jax bled out in my arms. He was a polite Mormon boy from Utah without a hateful bone in his body.
So to answer your question, are we all monsters? No, we’re not. We are fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons. We are dreamers, lovers, and God-fearing men. Are some of us monsters? Yeah, we are. Some of these soldiers kill with a thirst, and others can gun a man down and not even think twice about it. Unfortunately, there are some who wear the uniform that do not live within the code of ethics our uniforms represent. But the majority of us are just like you … people dealing with something so traumatic, so heartbreaking, and so horrific that the heart never quite learns to mend. Many of us, including myself at times, have learned to patch together the broken pieces of our hearts using whatever means necessary—and yes, that sometimes results in harm inflicted upon ourselves and others.
I wish I could tell you that I’ve never driven drunk, but that would be a lie. I didn’t change much after leaving Tennessee. And as ashamed as I am to admit it, I got worse once I moved to Pennsylvania—and worse yet after my grandmother passed away. Mom lost her shit completely when grandma didn’t leave a penny to her name, and it all went downhill from there. I started smoking all the time and drinking. I fell in with the wrong crowd. I just wanted anything other than to be there with her in that fucking trailer.
It was my twentieth birthday, and I was on my way back from a bar with my buddy. I was drunk and nearly unconscious in the passenger seat when my friend, who was also plastered, ran into a telephone pole going fifty in a thirty-five. The doctors said the only reason I avoided major injury was because I was passed out and wearing a seatbelt. My buddy wasn’t so lucky. He broke his C-2 vertebrae and has been a quadriplegic ever since. His entire life changed that night, Katie.
Even though I walked away from the wreck, my life changed that night too. I’ve had tremendous guilt since then and often think about the harm we could’ve caused others. To think we could’ve done something like what happened to your dad—to your family–it rocked me to my core. It still does. I joined the Army soon after that. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I didn’t want to be defined by those actions, and although I knew you were long gone—that I had effectively pushed you from my life—I still wanted to be worthy of you.
The man who took your father’s life could have easily been me a few years back. What’s worse is that I hadn’t even experienced combat yet. We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived. We become numb, our emotions sedated. Death becomes merely a noun, something we neither process nor heal from.
I make no excuse for the man who killed your father. Maybe he is a monster, one of those who kill with pleasure. Maybe he’s a young, dumb grunt who has no regard for the sanctity of human life. Or maybe he’s one of many who drink away the pain they can’t begin to understand. No matter the circumstance, a life was taken—the life of a wonderful man—and for that I am so incredibly sorry. I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
I’m thinking right about now that I’ve probably done more harm than good. I hope I haven’t heightened the ugliness you see in all of us, me especially, because that wasn’t my intention. I only hoped to explain the potential side effects of playing Russian roulette with roadside bombs and bullets for an entire year. And then another year, and another, and another ...
Don’t treat your grief as we do. Don’t let it simmer until, before you know what’s happened, it’s boiling over the edge. Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be. Don’t let him own your existence.
I know it must be hard, Katie. I’m no expert; I just know I haven’t been doing it the right way. Hell, I don’t even know what the right way is. But I do know that by hanging on to all this stuff and burying it deep down inside, it’ll all catch up to me one day. I can feel the cracks forming already, and I know the foundation will eventually come tumbling down.
I hope to hear back from you. I really enjoyed your letter, although it’s possible that it might be the first letter in pen pal program history where a soldier was called a ‘fucking dick.’
But seriously, thank you for writing. And thank you for not letting the past dictate the future.
Sincerely,
Devin
The letter falls from my hands, the papers floating aimlessly until they come to rest noiselessly on the ground. My mind is racing at warp speed as I work to process his words, but I can’t. There’s too much, too many emotions, too many things he said that I wasn’t prepared to hear or read, and now I can’t seem to focus on anything at all except this overwhelming, indescribable emotion that’s creeping its way through me.
My brows furrow when I think back to the letter that I wrote him and the callous things I said without abandon. And yet here he is, this soldier—this man who should feel like a stranger but doesn’t—fighting for our country, living in his own version of hell every single day, trying to give me peace. He clearly has his own cuts that run just as deep, if not deeper, than mine, but he’s offering me comfort in the only way he can—with his words.
I don’t regret expressing my feelings in the letter I wrote, but after reading his response, I feel like I don’t deserve his compassion. I want it though. God help me, I want it.
I squeeze my eyes shut as his words drift around in my head.
So to answer your question; are we all monsters? No, we’re not. We are fathers, brothers, husbands and sons. We are dreamers, lovers, and God-fearing men.
But the majority of us are just like you … people dealing with something so traumatic, so heartbreaking, and so horrific that the heart never quite learns to mend.
Lieutenant Drexler’s face pops in my head. I’ve only seen it once, pictured on the news, but it’s been branded in my memory and now I can’t help but wonder. Does he have a precious little girl or boy running around who will now grow up without him? Will his kids mourn the loss of their father the way I have mine? Does he have a wife who is scared and lost and lonely? Is his mother crying herself to sleep every night because the son who safely returned from the battlefield will never really return home now?
Not once have I allowed these possibilities to enter my mind. I haven’t wanted to consider anything about the man who killed my father, and I’m still not sure I want to. But Devin’s words have opened a gate, and it doesn’t matter how hard I push, the damn thing won’t shut.
I can only imagine that that soldier is sitting in a cell at this moment wishing he could take your father’s place.
We spend our days here immersed in death—women, children, and loved ones killed on a daily basis—and when we go back home, we aren’t the same as we were when we arrived.
Is Lt. Drexler’s pain as raw as mine?
Does he think about us as often as I think about him?
Pressure builds behind my eyes, making them burn, and a few tears manage to slip past the confines of my lashes and drip down the side of my face.
If I gave him the opportunity to explain or apologize, would he take it?
Is that something I’m strong enough to do?
A wave of heat washes over me, and without warning, a strangled cry flies from my mouth.
Don’t treat your grief as we do.
Don’t let this one man and his actions change who you are and who you were meant to be.
Don’t let him own your existence.
