Might not be new, but it might not be old, either. Sometimes I write things down on paper and find them later, folded into tiny packets.

Been in that weird place for a while now.

That dizzy, sort of absent but totally present euphoric sleepy-sadness in which if someone were to ask me right now how I felt I would come to a violent halt in the center of the room, press one finger to my lips, pause for a very significant length of time, and then tell you, in a half-laugh, half-whisper,

I don't know.

Caleb put his gun up to my head today. He pressed the muzzle against my hair and twisted it around until it was sideways, and he pressed it hard into my skull while he gritted his teeth and talked very softly. When he squeezed the trigger my eyes had closed in self-defense. I will not watch myself die. There was no bullet. It wasn't loaded. Or maybe it was loaded and I dodged it. Not like that hasn't happened before.

I opened my eyes and his whole face had collapsed in an angry, helpless sort of anguish. I asked him how he felt and he spoke very clearly.

I don't know.