the first thing you should know about this is that from the day it was written i continue to revisit it, reread it, and experience my very legitimate death, ad infinitum. mostly i think about how i have still not written a proper comment, mostly because every time i try i am too far on the floor to reach the keyboard, because you have killed me, and i can no longer hold myself in a sitting position. i also think about how perfect and horrible it is and how it is one of my most favorite things in the known universe. so i OWE IT A PROPER COMMENT, EVEN THOUGH IT WILL JUST BE ME SCREAMING FOR 500 YEARS; I.E., "MY LONGEST YEA BOI EVER," EXCEPT I AM CRYING. ETC.!!!
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end. this is beautiful and the formatting is beautiful; i'm furious. But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head. SHIT!!!!! “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?” ALRIGHT FIONA, ALRIGHT!!! IDK WHAT I DID TO CAUSE YOU TO SPITE ME IN THIS MANNER BUT ALRIGHT!!
i love the escalation of the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. i love the strange beauty of the language you chose when you talked about the bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw. i love how much the line this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun stabbed me in the chest and left me to die. HE HAS ALWAYS SCARED YOU.
it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way--JUST, PLACE ME STILL LIVING ON MY OWN FUNERAL PYRE, IT'S FINE. regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded--FUCK! ALRIGHT! It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise. . . . He’s still trying to save you. READING THIS AT WORK WAS AN AWFUL IDEA BC I CAN FEEL TEARS FORMING IN MY EYES NOW NOT JOKING BYE!!!! she touches the bruise on his jaw! If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO EARN YOUR HATRED, FIONA? HOW HAVE I WRONGED YOU? LET ME ATONE FOR IT SO YOU CAN NEVER CAUSE ME SUCH SUFFERING AGAIN, JAY EFF CEE.
TL;DR: YOU ARE AWFUL AND I HATE YOU AND I PRINTED THIS OUT AND IT'S IN MY DESK AND I READ IT SOMETIMES WHEN I FEEL LIKE SUFFERING AND/OR REMEMBERING WHAT WRITING IS AND WHY IT'S IMPORTANT AND WHY I LOVE IT. THIS WAS PROBABLY LIKE NOTHING TO YOU BUT TO ME IT IS EVERYTHING. THANK YOU. I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU. THANK YOU.
the first thing you should know about this is that from the day it was written i continue to revisit it, reread it, and experience my very legitimate death, ad infinitum. mostly i think about how i have still not written a proper comment, mostly because every time i try i am too far on the floor to reach the keyboard, because you have killed me, and i can no longer hold myself in a sitting position. i also think about how perfect and horrible it is and how it is one of my most favorite things in the known universe. so i OWE IT A PROPER COMMENT, EVEN THOUGH IT WILL JUST BE ME SCREAMING FOR 500 YEARS; I.E., "MY LONGEST YEA BOI EVER," EXCEPT I AM CRYING. ETC.!!!
Not the end, not for you, at least, not yet
(that comes later, smelling like expensive perfume and lime shampoo, wearing a face you know well but never thought you’d see again, but that’s a story for another time)
but this - Hunter with the gun shaking in his hands, eyes wide and stuck on yours, a burning building as your backdrop - this is an end. this is beautiful and the formatting is beautiful; i'm furious. But glasses fall off, and there’s soot settling into your curls, and Hunter’s got a gun aimed at your head. SHIT!!!!! “Casey,” again, his voice breaking down the middle of the word, and then, “Why?” ALRIGHT FIONA, ALRIGHT!!! IDK WHAT I DID TO CAUSE YOU TO SPITE ME IN THIS MANNER BUT ALRIGHT!!
i love the escalation of the air is still too hot, still smells like burning paper and burning sheets and burning flesh. i love the strange beauty of the language you chose when you talked about the bruise blossoming on Hunter’s jaw. i love how much the line this is your moment of triumphant victory; and yet all your focus is narrowed down to Hunter and his eyes and his gun stabbed me in the chest and left me to die. HE HAS ALWAYS SCARED YOU.
it’s a gasp this time, like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of you, like he’ll end up a pile of shards on the blackened grass if you don’t walk away, or maybe if you do walk away, or maybe either way--JUST, PLACE ME STILL LIVING ON MY OWN FUNERAL PYRE, IT'S FINE. regret and exhaustion and something burning and defiant that could be love if you weren’t so jaded--FUCK! ALRIGHT! It’s a dare. It’s a sacrifice. It’s a promise. . . . He’s still trying to save you. READING THIS AT WORK WAS AN AWFUL IDEA BC I CAN FEEL TEARS FORMING IN MY EYES NOW NOT JOKING BYE!!!! she touches the bruise on his jaw! If this was a film it would feel symbolic, but it’s not - you’re just kids, you’re not heroes; it just feels wrong. He’s too heavy even though you know, rationally, that he isn’t. The bullet gets stuck inside him. WHAT HAVE I DONE TO EARN YOUR HATRED, FIONA? HOW HAVE I WRONGED YOU? LET ME ATONE FOR IT SO YOU CAN NEVER CAUSE ME SUCH SUFFERING AGAIN, JAY EFF CEE.
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment