Wednesday 2 October 2019

Never better, I say when they ask, and they haven't realized it's the truth.

It's too early for this. I can't do this for this length of time. Something's not right and they don't see it. As it gets colder and darker outside they all hold on a little tighter but that's all. Sam isn't far. Lochlan won't even move out of breathing room, Ben has been keeping to a steady nine to five for the past few days and I know it will continue for the next few weeks and Caleb has his phone ready to call in an overpaid expert at a moment's notice, failing to register Joel sitting perpetually in my great room (who invited him), sipping coffee at all hours, making notes because the one thing I can't take back in my revenge on him is years of training. Claus remains on speed dial, retired but with numbers and people and the good drugs, easy to get.

The ghosts, easy to get to, not so easy to keep.

He would have been turning forty-nine. Can you picture Jacob on the verge of fifty? Deepened lines around his eyes. Maybe wearing shoes. Probably not. Sandier, whiter hair. Probably a slight paling of his white-blue eyes, or maybe they go darker. There's no room for the color to fade from his eyes. Still not wearing shoes. There's no space to breathe in here, I need Lochlan to move so my brain can explode. I need to do it quietly. I need to figure out a way to get through this. I've had ONE good fucking year since navigating this most holy of anniversaries and I can't do it. This is the twelfth time I'm trying here. How many chances do I get?