I know, I know. There’s nothing left to say. It just is what it is, and we have to deal with it.
You could have warned me, you could have told me. But that’s not how the story goes. The story is just the pattern, the consequence of characters.
It’s just the story, okay? This is just us. This is what it costs.
They talk about consequences, but they’re just empty voices, sound vanishing in the void after being ripped from human tongues.
You know they’re empty because they’re not screaming. You know that the light has burnt out, because the words that should bleed with horror are passionless and automatic.
Those are consequences. Shh, it’s okay if you didn’t survive them. It’s okay if you’re barely even there. That’s the story. That’s who you are.
And you won’t even feel a thing, not really, not ever again.
…
Tick, tock.
October. Sometime between now and October.
I’ve been waiting. Why now, exactly? There aren’t any good, rational answers. I suppose it was a few things. I guess I felt like I was supposed to have to wait. And it had to be long enough, but not too long. Something about suspense, maybe.
Part of it was just that I needed to draw a line. I needed an excuse. Every time is the same as any other time. So how do you pick?
How do you decide when’s going to be the time you’ve been waiting for?
I guess you just kind of do. It’s a troubling, half-mad kind of thing, deciding something’s going to be special just because you want it to. Utterly circular. Senseless, pointless.
And yet here I am, tearing my life apart on the altar I’ve carved out.
What’s going to happen by the end of October, I wonder? It’s an awful lot of time.
I just need something. And now, even nothing would be something. Even nothing would be answer. A horrific, bitter answer, but an answer nonetheless.
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