He burned it all. Down through the layers, through potential. Through the present and into the future and then he made his way across the scorched and blackened earth and he came for the past. He came to burn down the past without him and renew the past with him, searing it into my brain, into my flesh, into my very soul even as he was singed in the process, scalded and smoked, a victim of his own efforts to fix this.
It can't be fixed but he pushes it back, bringing the flames and the light to the dark, his side of a losing war fought with heart, with earnest, with the blazing glow of a love that won't quit.
This was his battle speech, told to me in fragments and with lengthy delays, over his shoulder as he waged that fight against the dark. Against the past. Against Jake.
Jacob is the black hole that has ruined everything. I would have done okay after Caleb. After Cole. After all of that already until Jacob happened. Lochlan doesn't see it that way. He thinks eventually if you burn enough of Jake away, the remnants of everything and everyone will eventually stop coming back.
It's the complete opposite of what Sam is doing (as the memory thief he's trying to bring closure to my time with Jacob, locking all of the memories away as they are finished and solved, turning hurtful moments into teaching ones, negatives into positives, and using the power of Bridget's Oversized, Expansive Imagination to finish off the ones that remain incomplete).
(Lochlan burned those down too but we're not going to talk about that today).
It's the complete opposite of what August is doing too (as the surrogate-Jacob he's telling me I need to move on before and distract myself from memories of his best friend before shape-shifting INTO his best friend for a little affection without strings (as if there aren't strings!). And it helps. And we're not blaming him, it's my fault even though if the truth is to be believed I'm not in a position to control much of anything. Too fragile. Too splintered. Too Fucked Up with a capital F U.).
(Lochlan hates it. Oh, how he hates it and yet he bites his tongue until he tastes ash and regret. And still he says nothing.)
He pulls me into the flames with him, baptized by fire. I'll win, Lochlan says, the firelight flickering in his green eyes, which look almost black in the dark.
I know you will, I tell him. Because ten-year-old Bridget believes him. Believes what he says and believes in his capabilities without question and without doubt, one hundred percent forever infinity.
It can't be fixed but he pushes it back, bringing the flames and the light to the dark, his side of a losing war fought with heart, with earnest, with the blazing glow of a love that won't quit.
This was his battle speech, told to me in fragments and with lengthy delays, over his shoulder as he waged that fight against the dark. Against the past. Against Jake.
Jacob is the black hole that has ruined everything. I would have done okay after Caleb. After Cole. After all of that already until Jacob happened. Lochlan doesn't see it that way. He thinks eventually if you burn enough of Jake away, the remnants of everything and everyone will eventually stop coming back.
It's the complete opposite of what Sam is doing (as the memory thief he's trying to bring closure to my time with Jacob, locking all of the memories away as they are finished and solved, turning hurtful moments into teaching ones, negatives into positives, and using the power of Bridget's Oversized, Expansive Imagination to finish off the ones that remain incomplete).
(Lochlan burned those down too but we're not going to talk about that today).
It's the complete opposite of what August is doing too (as the surrogate-Jacob he's telling me I need to move on before and distract myself from memories of his best friend before shape-shifting INTO his best friend for a little affection without strings (as if there aren't strings!). And it helps. And we're not blaming him, it's my fault even though if the truth is to be believed I'm not in a position to control much of anything. Too fragile. Too splintered. Too Fucked Up with a capital F U.).
(Lochlan hates it. Oh, how he hates it and yet he bites his tongue until he tastes ash and regret. And still he says nothing.)
He pulls me into the flames with him, baptized by fire. I'll win, Lochlan says, the firelight flickering in his green eyes, which look almost black in the dark.
I know you will, I tell him. Because ten-year-old Bridget believes him. Believes what he says and believes in his capabilities without question and without doubt, one hundred percent forever infinity.