Dominate (Deliver 8)

You’ve been gone for six months. Did you know that? Does time move the same where you are?

My mom makes me see a therapist because I won’t talk to her. Funny how, when bad things happen, people make it worse by feeling sorry for you. I see the pity in their eyes, the shared looks of concern. What they’re thinking and not saying is that I’m horribly fucked-up and make everyone uncomfortable.

Grownups are clueless. They think they can fix things, like I need someone to take care of me, but mostly they just want me to act normal.

I can act normal and feel brave and still find myself falling.

Maybe that’s what love does. It gives you hope then throws you off the cliff into terrible darkness so that every memory stays with you into infinity.

I’m drowning in memories. I remember when you were born, when you started walking, talking, and running faster than me. Jesus, you were fast. I was always chasing you, wasn’t I?

Now I’m chasing shadows.

You know what really messes me up? The fact that I’ve been waiting my entire life for you to get older, and now you never will.

You’ll always be fourteen. Three years younger than me this year. Four years younger than me next year. The year after that, five years younger. I have to graduate from high school in the spring, knowing that you will never join me on the other side.

All the dreams we talked about—college, marriage, the dogs, the kids, the house with the pond, everything we planned… Our future died with you. We did everything right, and it all turned around on us.

You’re mine, but you’re not. Mine to protect, but I can’t do that, can I?

I guess you don’t need protection where you are. You’re free from danger and pain. Congratulations on being free. But I’m still here, reaching for you and waiting for you to reach back.

Losing you feels like I lost myself. When I try to talk about it, I hear a noiseless hush. Echoes, maybe. Like strangled screaming from somewhere inside me. That really sucks, you know? I can’t talk to the therapist. It’s a waste of goddamn time.

But writing the words to you… I don’t know. This is easier. I don’t feel so helpless and weird. Because I know you’re listening without judgment. Even when you don’t like what I say, you’ve always listened.

Maybe if I keep writing, if I tell you about the guy who misses his girl, no matter how bad it is, I won’t be stuck in this story anymore. I’ll be the author of it.

Authors have the ultimate power. They can save a character. Or kill him off. I like that idea.

Shit, I need to go. My mom’s calling for me. I think she’s lying about how bad her cancer is. I’ll tell you about that another time.

Thank you for listening.

I wish you were here.

Yours,

Tommy

A lump knotted in her throat, and her tears cascaded with a vengeance. She read through the email again and again, hurting for him through every word. He was only seventeen. Just a kid. Yet he had more strength and maturity than she did at thirty-one.

Boy, did that put her pathetic life into perspective.

What the hell was she doing?

She sat back against the guardrail and pointed her toes toward the black nothingness below. Nighttime insects buzzed around her, and in the distance, the rushing river beckoned.

“Mason cheated on me.” She spat the words off the bridge.

She repeated it over and over. Every time she screamed it, the statement was no less true, but it started to lose its power over her.

So he cheated on her. Was that really worth killing herself over?

Yes.

She thought about it and asked the question again.

Maybe. I don’t know.

Mason hadn’t died in a car accident. His life hadn’t been stolen from her. He was an unfaithful husband. A dirtbag. A man who didn’t love her enough to be faithful.

This kid, Tommy, was dealing with something far more tragic, and she didn’t sense a hint of suicide in his email. He was powering through it, pushing forward, despite the excruciating pain and loneliness.

If he loved his girlfriend even a fraction as much as she loved Mason, he was hurting. Inconsolably. The more a person loved something, the harder it was to lose it.

She felt that loss at the center of her bones. It was a winless battle she didn’t want to fight.

Until she’d read that message.

Now she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t email the boy. If she did, he would stop writing to his girlfriend and lose that outlet to express his feelings.

He needed someone to hear him, and deep down, she knew she needed to listen. She couldn’t compare his misery to hers. It wasn’t even in the same realm. But she related to his words and felt his insecurities like they were her own.