choose what stays and what fades away// tsiuri&georgie

I’d like to believe that Irena had found dog in perfect condition. He was sitting there happily by the post, maybe Barnie would have even put out a bowl of water out while he waited. Unlike myself, dog was a patient creature. He would always be there in the morning when I came home from a long shift, lying with me in bed as I cried out all the frustration. Big puppy dog eyes and I swore he would smile from time to time when he knew I needed it.

Guilt washed over me when I came to understood I might have taken him for granted. Told myself I was doing him a favor by never claiming he belonged to me. Scared that anytime I dared think of something as my own, it would be ripped away from my fingers in a matter of moments.

That’s the hidden violence of trauma; found in patterns you cannot begin to fathom until it is a little too late.

My fingers grazed the covers of books beholding a beauty that could only be poisonous. A reminder of the riches of the capitol, dangling the privilege in front of us as they prepare us for slaughter. I did not belong in the library. Too rotten of a person, decaying away in self loathing longing for something that was never to be mine again.

I missed everything I never had.

And everything I could have wanted was found between the pages in these books.

One of them open on a wooden lecture. Prompted open to a page that had me laughing in bittersweet memory. I could have cried, but I don’t think that I am capable anymore. A portrait of a dog, it looked hand pained in the light. Beige and white blending together to replicate its fur, the creature in the book maybe a little bit bigger than dog. He looked more at peace, probably did not have to wonder if anyone would come back home every time someone left. Dog really did deserve better.

There were footsteps behind me, one of the small girls from six. A child, the older of the two.

“I have a dog back at home” I contemplated my sentiment, but there really was nothing worth elaborating to a stranger. “Looks a bit like that one in the book.” It was quite silly how I as explaining myself to a little girl who did not ask for an explanation. Even more ironic that a few years ago I would complain about people and their pets. Never getting why people cared so much until dog was forced into my life.

“You got a pet?” I asked trying to shift the focus away from me. I hated talking about myself, I had always rather talked about someone else’s misery, not that I was hoping the kid had anything to complain about.