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“I need to talk to her.”
“She won’t come out.”
“What do you bloody mean, ‘she won’t come out’?”
“She won’t.”
“Let me come in, please. I have to talk to her.”
Adele just looks at me and shakes her head. She looks so different. So much older. When she visited last Christmas, she was beautiful. Gorgeous. But now she’s gray-riddled and tired. The war’s changed everything.
“Adele, please—you have to let me see her, please! This is my fault and I need to set it straight.” My voice cracks and I bite my lip. What’s happened to me?
“She’s not ready, Saul. Come back tomorrow—perhaps then…”
“Another day won’t make a difference!” I’m shouting now. “Letting her lock herself up is insanity! Have you just given up? Have you given up on your own fucking sister, Adele? She might be mad, but she en’t something you can just put away and forget!”
Everything’s threatening to overwhelm me, so I turn round and hobble away as fast as I can on my one crutch. I move awkwardly and lopsided and my arm is sore but I don’t stop: I can only go faster. As I go I suddenly regret telling Adele what I just did. She’s just lost her parents and youngest sister, and now Sara’s fucked up, too… she didn’t deserve those words, least of all coming from the likes of me. But can’t go back. Instead my shoe kicks up clouds of summer dust as I make my way as fast as I can down the road that I’ve lived on my entire life. I’m spilling, overflowing, and when I’m passing the old, bomb-blackened crabapple tree that Sara and I would race to when we were kids, my grip on my crutch falters, my leg gives out and I fall into a puddle of rainwater on the edge or the path. It’s lukewarm and filthy and spreads across my shirt.
I unbutton it and twist out of the soaking sleeves, and I manage to make it to the base of the tree before I start crying. It just won’t stop. The sun’s going down, the air growing dark around me, but my lungs won’t stop contracting. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. We don’t deserve this. We don’t fucking deserve this!
My sobs are hurting my leg and my burned side, and finally, after winding my arms round my chest, I manage to quiet myself down. This felt so wrong. I haven’t cried, actually cried, in eleven years. I don’t like it. I hate it.
“What happened to us?” I whisper, running my hand down my left leg until it ends at the knee. The bandages are warm and artificial against my fingers and I immediately pull away.
Never before in my life have I ever felt so broken.
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Saul, art (c) me
--
“I need to talk to her.”
“She won’t come out.”
“What do you bloody mean, ‘she won’t come out’?”
“She won’t.”
“Let me come in, please. I have to talk to her.”
Adele just looks at me and shakes her head. She looks so different. So much older. When she visited last Christmas, she was beautiful. Gorgeous. But now she’s gray-riddled and tired. The war’s changed everything.
“Adele, please—you have to let me see her, please! This is my fault and I need to set it straight.” My voice cracks and I bite my lip. What’s happened to me?
“She’s not ready, Saul. Come back tomorrow—perhaps then…”
“Another day won’t make a difference!” I’m shouting now. “Letting her lock herself up is insanity! Have you just given up? Have you given up on your own fucking sister, Adele? She might be mad, but she en’t something you can just put away and forget!”
Everything’s threatening to overwhelm me, so I turn round and hobble away as fast as I can on my one crutch. I move awkwardly and lopsided and my arm is sore but I don’t stop: I can only go faster. As I go I suddenly regret telling Adele what I just did. She’s just lost her parents and youngest sister, and now Sara’s fucked up, too… she didn’t deserve those words, least of all coming from the likes of me. But can’t go back. Instead my shoe kicks up clouds of summer dust as I make my way as fast as I can down the road that I’ve lived on my entire life. I’m spilling, overflowing, and when I’m passing the old, bomb-blackened crabapple tree that Sara and I would race to when we were kids, my grip on my crutch falters, my leg gives out and I fall into a puddle of rainwater on the edge or the path. It’s lukewarm and filthy and spreads across my shirt.
I unbutton it and twist out of the soaking sleeves, and I manage to make it to the base of the tree before I start crying. It just won’t stop. The sun’s going down, the air growing dark around me, but my lungs won’t stop contracting. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. We don’t deserve this. We don’t fucking deserve this!
My sobs are hurting my leg and my burned side, and finally, after winding my arms round my chest, I manage to quiet myself down. This felt so wrong. I haven’t cried, actually cried, in eleven years. I don’t like it. I hate it.
“What happened to us?” I whisper, running my hand down my left leg until it ends at the knee. The bandages are warm and artificial against my fingers and I immediately pull away.
Never before in my life have I ever felt so broken.
---
Saul, art (c) me
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Comments33
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So much improvement! But I will say, I can see the improvement almost from deviation to deviation. You are getting so good so fast! 