aiden love. d9. fin

When bad things happen, I am there. I've got a grin on my face, I've been planning, plotting, waiting- oh. so. patiently. -to watch you hurt, suffer. I've watched you bleed, I've felt the bruises, tasted what was left of your life—I saw the joy in your eyes as your wife danced, watched them light up with pride as your eldest won his first boxing tournament, watched you laugh until you were bright red as you bounced your babbling twin girls on your knees—I saw it all.

And I still chose my own pathetic existence over yours. And I'm not saying that I am—pathetic that is; I've more self-respect than that—just that I know what a fact is. A truth. And the truth is that, I am living just that: a "pathetic" existence.

When bad things happen, I am there. And only a fool would let themselves suffer when they could be creating the bad for themselves before-


Well, before they laugh at your horror, pain, fear.

Before they make the bad thing happen to you.

My father is not a good man. Nor my mother a good woman. Many in District 9 are not despite the recent push for new mayoral legislation. Elections are always a busy affair; he seems to think he'll prove himself to the powerful gangs here if he does the dirtiest jobs for them. And mother, well, she enjoys the drug trade just as much as everyone else.

I understand my parents. I hate them, despise them even, yes, that much is true. But I understand them, their motivations, why they insist upon rules and discipline and order—and of course chaos, too. They know how to get what they need out of someone, how to make them hurt, where to break their bones, how many teeth and nails to pull, just how many slices it takes to get to the center of the human soul.

I take after them.

Not that I've ever been given much of a choice.

My anxieties feel like a failure; I can't breathe in small spaces. And it's all because my father knew that chests were meant to be filled with hearts and mysterious treasures, not his daughter. And it's all because my mother knew that bonds were meant to be filled with love and devotion, not her daughter's dowry contract.

And as I said, my parents are not good people. They knew what would happen when they locked me inside closets and told me to behave and they knew how I'd beg when they began branding my ring finger with my cheek pressed against our plywood floors. I wear the ring like mother told me to now—helps my finger look like it's still attached to the rest of me. Not that anyone would bother asking me about it.

I do take after my parents, remember?

But then there's those nights where there are only the stars—which isn't true, but I'd tell you otherwise with a smile that practically has a gravitational pull of it's own—and the smoke from the swirling from the end of a cigarette I stole from my cousin mixing with the smell grease fires, poorly oiled woodchippers, and hot puke evaporating off of cold asphalt.

I don't mind watching the suffering from a distance. Sometimes on those nights I'll even think: Hey. Maybe this isn't so bad either? All this- nothing. Only the sound of a distant riverbed waking from its frozen hibernation, a long, nasty drag from a queen made of menthol, and stars I've only ever bothered to admire - never chart, never memorize, never connect, never even learn the names of. I can just be small- no.

Insignificant. Unnoticed. Nothing.

Then again, I would tell you I didn't like it up close.

Suffering.

But you'd never know I was lying to you. That is something I'm sure of.