Darkness is a voice. It inhabits empty things. Hear it. Repeatedly screaming my name as she’s dragged away. Blood dripping. Choking. Crying. Blind. Swallowed up.
She didn’t write me until he was dead. He would have kept me safe. Instead I’m exposed, to epistolary efforts that unwind in the soul. Words of jagged scars and acrostics and sadness and want.
Rejection cast a shadow on my every move. Confusion dimmed her eyes. Her voice became a whisper. On and on. Needing me more than a child could provide. What was real? Until she died. Still I hear her calling. The saddest sound.
I never claimed her ashes.
This is my story that should be told. In part. Partial. Complete. My existence. Defined by what’s not there. Are you there? I don’t believe you’ll ever know what it really means to be alone.
You see I can’t stop and here I’ve already started.
Sweet release of a lifetime of grief.
Too many extensive mentions for a note to be complete.