rimi, d9 — cbd1

Mama always told me I was special. Like every silly little girl, I believed her with my whole heart.

I think our poverty made me hopeful. It taught me that enduring my hardships early on would open the world up to me, in due time. It would reward the ferocity, the determination I held precious. Some days, that hope was the only thing that kept me warm.

I played the long game. I studied hard. I grew jasmine. Then –

I’m a fresh twenty-something year old, stumbling into the path of a boy that looked like a prince. Thinking, yes, finally, this is the happy ending I was promised.

//

There was a lot I didn’t know.

Eventually, it pours out of Buck, somewhere between the first and second year. In tiny, bite-sized pieces, at first, but gathering momentum as Blanche is born; as Buck’s dad imposes on our life.

I learn about holes in chests.

I learn how many guns are hidden in the floorboards, in the drywall, in the drawers in our bedroom (twenty-two).

Fleur is born.

I learn I can never have my own dreams. They died when I murmured two words under oath, under an arch, under a spell.

Ai is born.

He cries more than Blanche or Fleur ever did. More than I do.

He knows before us all.

I can’t stay.

//

Fleur dies, and I lose the last parts of myself.

My angel, my baby, my light.

It doesn’t feel fair. For having lost so much already. It’s just a cycle of loss, repeating.

I still cry every night, sitting in the middle of a hollowed out living room, alone. There’s a lifetime of longing inside of me – for a different fate, a second chance, a reset button. Things I’ll never have.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him.