I know what you're doing, and I appreciate it, but what do you want me to say?
[ It's quick and reactionary, the kind of sharp request a man makes when he doesn't know the answers to the questions swimming around in his head. When Nate turns to look at him again it is intent, bordering on imploring. Is there some quota he has to fill, some requisite milestone he needs to hit in order to be satisfied? To feel catharsis? ]
Should I cry? Should I fall to my knees, tear my hair out? "It's unfair"?
[ The mirthless exhale is accompanied by a shake of his head. Rhetorical, maybe, and not particularly nice to ask of a man who is clearly trying his best to help in spite of the fact that they are both hopelessly out of their depth. Stephen doesn't know about his mother's illness, his father's apathy, years of resentment cultivated by a culture of penance and blame and guilt under the watchful gaze of a crucifix, the sound an old woman makes when she dies on the floor in front of the boys who broke into her house.
The wail of the police sirens, the fear of being separated. What it feels like to change your name and leave the country before you've hit your teens.
He carved the small spaces himself, pockets of air: a wife and a home. BUt these things were earned, not given. ]
no subject
[ It's quick and reactionary, the kind of sharp request a man makes when he doesn't know the answers to the questions swimming around in his head. When Nate turns to look at him again it is intent, bordering on imploring. Is there some quota he has to fill, some requisite milestone he needs to hit in order to be satisfied? To feel catharsis? ]
Should I cry? Should I fall to my knees, tear my hair out? "It's unfair"?
[ The mirthless exhale is accompanied by a shake of his head. Rhetorical, maybe, and not particularly nice to ask of a man who is clearly trying his best to help in spite of the fact that they are both hopelessly out of their depth. Stephen doesn't know about his mother's illness, his father's apathy, years of resentment cultivated by a culture of penance and blame and guilt under the watchful gaze of a crucifix, the sound an old woman makes when she dies on the floor in front of the boys who broke into her house.
The wail of the police sirens, the fear of being separated. What it feels like to change your name and leave the country before you've hit your teens.
He carved the small spaces himself, pockets of air: a wife and a home. BUt these things were earned, not given. ]
Nothing about my life has been fair.