Birth in Reverse // Chelsey [Blitz]

GENERALLY, I don't take pity fairly well. It's a hereditary trait, I think, because my dad would've rather died than feel others pity him (which, you know, he did), and my mom was the first to cut conversations full of empty condolences short ("Margaret, dear, I'm so sorry to hear about -" "Thank you, Jan. How are your kids getting along, may I ask?"). We Sepulvedas are born and bred stubborn - not strong. Stubbornness and strength both require perseverance, but, while stubbornness is derived from personal and irrational desires, strength comes from a moral goodwill. It's rare that I find myself stuck in the latter.

Emilie might as well be a Sepulveda, because she drops down into the seat next to me, despite my obvious protests to her staying. Next thing I know, she's glancing over my shoulder and I can just manage a "Hey, you can't-!" before she reads aloud, "Dear Edith, you bi-". She's the one to cut it short, now, and the silence of her interruption suspends itself in the air between us, growing thick and hazy. The back of my eyes begin to sting, because reading my letter - her saying those words aloud - makes the reality of my situation even more real. Edith's neglect, whether intentioned or not, is now the white elephant in the room, and I'd rather have it sit on my face than hear one word of pity being uttered from this crazy girl's mouth.

I stare at my hands instead of Emilie, grateful that her gaze is more curious than sympathetic. Curiosity - now that's something I can deal with. Curiosity, at least, can be cured. For a moment, I consider laughing, brushing off the situation with a smile that wouldn't reach my eyes and a throaty chuckle that would feel foreign in my mouth, deflating and placating her inquisitions. But, then she asks Linda for two White Russians, and I laugh for real. And, okay, maybe my eyes are watery with tears that no mental dam could hold back, but it was still a laugh all the same.

"Now I'm no expert with this sort of thing," she says as she pulls the paper from underneath my clasped hands, and I scoff, because Wow, isn't that an understatement?, "but calling her a bitch is probably not going to get you that big lovey dovey reunion you're pining for."

"If I called you a bitch, would it get you to leave?" It was meant to sound snarky and sarcastic, but my voice cracks halfway through, and God be damned if I don't already know that Emilie's gonna use this vocal inadequacy against me for the next how-many-months. "Probably not," I shake my head, still not looking at her, partly because I'm still a bit annoyed that she's here, and partly because I'm scared that if I do I'm gonna start crying even more. "You're as stubborn as a bull. You can never just leave me alone."

If only Edith was the same.