read all about <-i-t-- {|z o e|}

My entire life has been subjected to receiving terrible news. I can't remember hearing the words my father did that sent him over the edge "We're terribly sorry but your wife didn't make it") but I imagine they were complimented with "But all 5 of them are beautiful and healthy." (Not that that made him want to care anyway, it's like both of our parents died that day. We killed them both - but it just took him a little longer to wither away.) Even hearing "Klaus Goravich!" all those years ago ended with "Ladies and Gentlemen, the Victor of the 61st Annual Hunger Games!" and "My name is Klaus Goravich, and I am coming home."

You would think this would all get easier. That every time I am bombarded with grave information it would be so effortless to know that there is in fact a light at the end of the tunnel. That wonderful news would cushion the blow (Daisy's arrival to our home in Klaus' arms was an astonishing yet well-needed shock to us all, but nonetheless a positive one.) That I would have learnt to fight through it, to hold my head up high, to know that nothing stays permanently broken. Everything is always fixable, even our family.

Except, of course, me.

Nothing about hearing "I'm terribly sorry" gets any easier, no matter how many times it tumbles into your head. The rest of the sentence is disregarded, thrown away like the tablets and medicine I mindlessly dumped into the bin this morning. None of it mattered anymore. Whether I was supposed to care or not tugs at my conscience - I'm not devastated, but something inside of me questions why I haven't broken down in tears yet. (I think it's the same feeling that tugs at me when I see Klaus with Daisy, her beautiful little head tipping back to laugh and his eyes lighting up with joy - something I haven't seen in my brother in many, many years.)

Daisy, it seems, has started to heal my brother. Not in the same way that Sephera has for Jamarion and Tiberius has for Hopper, but the fact that her little, happy life has done for him in weeks that I haven't been able to do in years despite my bests efforts takes a weight off of my shoulders. It doesn't matter where she came from or who brought her into this world - her past seems irrelevant. She has brought his old self back, and he a wonderful life full of people who adore her. (Maybe that's why I am so so sad - that I never got a chance to be loved by a parent. That I'll never be able to make up for what I lost, to love someone like that.)

"I'm terribly sorry Miss Goravich but the results were negative. I'm afraid you can't have children."

So I do what I do best when I can't take care of myself: I take care of others instead.

The microwave hums quietly, cut out by Sephera's voice beginning conversation. It's nice to have female company that doesn't want to kill your other siblings or hide away from everyone. Today's babble of chatter masks my unusual silence, tuning in and out occasionally to revisit my swirl of uncomprehending thoughts. "So, what's been going on?" she asks in-between popcorn noises and caring to the tea on the stove, but I struggle to find a lie easy enough to feed her.

Turns out I didn't need one. At "You should have kids some day!" I freeze, wide-eyed and panicking. My expression seems to channel the next words that tumble from her mouth, like she too is struggling to hide something. "I mean, I could see you having them, is all... damn, how long is this tea going to take?"

An angry "What-the-hell-do-you-know?" threatens to spill from my mouth, recalling promises of confidentiality and privacy from men and women in long white coats and glasses and making a note to immediately contact a lawyer in my panic - but I'm too frightened to get angry. Instead I simply laugh through my frenzy and say "I've got too many of this lot to worry about before I get any ideas", shaking my head as I speak. She might be able to see the tremors in my hands but I hide them behind my back regardless and ask "Is there something you want to tell me, Seph?"

I've been collecting bad news to last three lifetimes worth, and Sephera is the last person in the world that deserves to share it. I only pray that she has nothing but good things to say.