This was written for dVerse Prosery. Thank you.
Unfortunately this is not as much fiction as I would like to provide.
Anger, so much anger. Swinging from non-existent beams to floorboards. Dancing flagrantly on holidays when moods were high, children asleep. Alcohol-fueled, cheating aside, inside, revised.
I never knew who I was to be, but I did know I wanted to laugh, give. Unfortunately, I was almost empathic. Emotions became me. I tried to understand, respond, become.
When I was 11, I took a terminal walk with my daddy. His last. His gasping heart, attack, a third, lying down on a mound between the two steams I played in, that became the home of his final consciousness.
I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended. I was barely myself; I was barely anyone because I wanted to be everyone, available. Until, I felt, I was nothing, nothing at all.
Because I was still lost, there, demolished, on a stream bank.