soporta
This time, he keeps his hand steady. It doesn't shake, and for the first time in months he feels as though he has complete control over his actions and feelings. Everything he writes is premeditated and deliberate. He doesn't hesitate or stumble, and when he finishes the letter, he doesn't wonder for even a second if it's incomplete. His confidence is as steady as his hand, not once faltering as he carefully folds the paper into thirds and tucks it into an envelope. He seals it, writing the address on the front that he used to visit after school every day growing up. He doesn't miss it, and though the house number and street name glide onto the paper with a sense of familiarity, upon rereading the words on paper, they feel objectified and foreign. There's nothing to miss besides old memories that once were pleasant but as of recently feel tainted by the present. He has one stamp left, and he places it in the corner. He knows better than to include a return address. Above the address he writes the recipient's name, five letters drained of trust and devoid of friendship. ~~~~~ may never open the letter, but the sense of closure !!!!!! feels slipping the letter into the mailbox, watching it disappear, and turning around and walking away is satisfying enough. Turning to ....., watching the way the wind musses her hair, the way her makeup is beginning to smudge from the humidity, !!!!! says, "I think I'm going to catch the next bus headed north. Take some time to myself." She frowns and asks, "Are you sure?" !!!!! nods. He needs space from all of this, a permanent break, which can only be for the better. Through the past ___ months, !!!!! has learned that to relent is not to give up; it's to move on.
every attempt that she had make to get his attention had been in vain because it was clear he wasn't listening. she scoffed and slouched over some in her chair, looking across at him. she frowned. it wasn't her fault he wasn't listening, that he was being immature, that she couldn't get the message across to him that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't a fucking weakling, that he needed to get over himself. the fact that he wasn't listening is what made him weak, the conscious attempt at blocking out the reality of the situation. she scoffed again and stood up, leaving the room. if he wasn't going to listen, she wasn't going to bother.
the knock on the door went unheard over the noise in the kitchen. her laptop was on the counter and she was listening to that old "Untitled" playlist of hers that she forgot she ever made. it contained dusty songs that she hadn't listened to in ages but remembered so distinctly and specifically that the nostalgia surrounding the kitchen – old music and the smell of homemade peanut butter cookies – drowned out the gentle but persistent knocking.
the impending sense of must that he felt was gradually relieved with the scattered, half-hearted kisses that she placed with extreme precision on his neck, his collarbone, his chest. she progressed to his stomach, down by his hipbone, the small birthmark on his upper thigh. she was an expert, a goddess, though he could tell she didn't care, that her kisses had grown into a dull routine that she performed for him out of a fading love. the sense of must that he felt – must leave, must stop, must reciprocate – slowly melted away despite the fact.
The selection of books in the library was overwhelming and he didn't know where to begin. He scanned over rows and rows of books, carelessly judging each one by its cover. He had no regrets about this – although he did leave empty-handed. His selection had been vast, but his choices limited. He would have to check somewhere else.
i think about things too much. that's something most people will say. they think about work or school or that their wife is cheating on them or that they procrastinate too much or that they're worthless and they'll never achieve their hopes and dreams or that it's too cold out or what will I have for dinner or how much longer is he going to be or why do I even bother. I think all of this and then some, the point where I don't eat and I don't sleep and all I can ever think to do is think.
All he wanted was the opportunity to prove everybody wrong, and to say he never got it was an understatement. Everybody was so wrapped up in how right they thought they were, that _he_ was considered wrong for thinking otherwise. or s/t idk this was hard
It was an intriguing concept. More importantly, it was one that made sense. He had a blueprint–okay, so, he didn't have it on paper, but he did have a plan that was concrete and sounded organized and clever and doable. Time was an issue, sure, and so was money, but they had a concept, which they never anticipated, and at that moment it was all that seemed to matter.
There had been seven reports of assault in the city in the past three days, which was an unusually high number and warranted an explanation. So the lead detective was obligated to sit down, stare at all seven reports, and note to himself, rather incredulously, the similarities between them, the attack methods and timing and location. He quickly realized that these were all done by the same person–even more surprising, he thought, was that no one had caught on sooner, because every report accused the same man: ___
His methods for coping were scattered concepts that only fell into place during their execution and frequently involved panic attacks, crying, or feeling an overwhelming urge to punch a wall. Sometimes, though, he just sat there, staring at the wall, and he didn't want to punch it, but instead wanted the opposite; to do so much _nothing_ to it that he wished it would just disappear, and when it didn't, okay, yeah, _then_ he wanted to punch it.
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writing since 2012 · 19 entries · 18 days shown up
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