It's no mystery. Ever since Eric killed himself, I haven't been shocked by people very much. Which isn't to say it had anything to do with him dying-- he just had very interesting timing. He's my last mystery. And I just wrote my last letter to him, published it for the world to see. I never let my demons out quietly. I imagined I heard him breathing at the end, not sinisterly or anything. He sounded like a kid stretched out on a pillow, out like a light. Since all of that, Eric dying, everything else by the fountain dying-- I've become more adept at recognizing things. Nothing useful, like faraway signs or change on the sidewalk. Just other peoples' skeletons in the closet. It's quite common. I know a handful of people with the same capability--it's funny, when I'm with those people, we never talk about childhood trauma. But I know many more people who don't see skeletons. So in our conversation, inevitably comes the moment of confession-- which isn't a confession at all. It's more like crossing the T's and dotting the I's. Sign here. "I'm a liar" And then the false intimacy that ensues. Real on one end and feigned on the other, like in houses where there's a living room and a guest room. I don't mind being the guest room. She asked me, do you know what they say about you? It was a fair attempt. See it was meant to hurt me, that question. What I know for sure is that they say I'm a whore, a lesbian, cruel, flaky, godless, a prude, spiritual, weird and a bitch. Does that cover it? Or has the gossip at uni changed much since I was seventeen? God, seven years. If you only understood that a lot worse than that could surface. The truth for one thing. And I know that it wont. Because even if there were anything 'new' to let out--they wouldn't. I've become a caretaker of confessions. Hundreds of screaming, mewling confessions that I didn't need confirmed. Maybe they tell me because I already know? No, I think they needed to know for themselves. It's almost as if I was just a sounding board so they could recognize their insides in their own echoes. You were done hearing yours-- it wasn't the first and it won't be the last. Feel free to ignore me again-- none of my words will ever refer to you. I'm a good confessional caretaker. |