n3m3sis43: ((FMAB) Huuuughes and Winryyyy)
Your voice haunts me; it has since the first time I heard it.

I remember a car ride, my husband driving me and our then-toddler son to a picnic. The whole way there, you spoke to me in low, honeyed whispers. Your words flowed through me, and I had no choice but to take them down, tapping them out on my phone with fumbling fingers.

Back then, your words wove their way into my dreams and woke me each day before dawn. My own words were never enough, though I heard you as clearly as if you were standing beside me. I’d lock myself up in my office for hours on end, desperate to capture your essence on the page.

It wasn’t a labor of love, though I romanticize it now. Bent over my desk, my back in knots, I carried your tension, your shame, your self-loathing. Your story consumed me, and I hated you for it. My husband wasn’t happy. I was depressed, he said, hiding in my writing.

He gave me an ultimatum: Get help or I’ll leave. I tried.

The therapist found me “fascinating.” I told her about you, and exactly what part of my psyche you represented. It’s not unusual, apparently, for trauma survivors to separate themselves from their emotions this way, but it’s uncommon for them to have so much insight into the process.

I could feel you rolling your eyes.

Blah blah blah, you said, but you did your best to cooperate.

A few weeks in, you even finally let me give her your name, not that she could ever remember it. She always called you “that angry one,” as though that were in any way an accurate descriptor. I never told her what a privilege it was to know your name at all. Names have power, you know.

It was a power I shouldn’t have given her. When she suggested medication, I feared it would make me stop hearing you. She said that wasn’t how antidepressants worked. Besides, she asked, wasn’t I willing to risk a change in my writing process in order to be healthy?

I didn’t give a damn about being healthy -- but you did.

Take the fucking pills, you said. It’ll be okay.

It wasn’t.

Years later, the marriage I sacrificed you to save is ending anyway. The son who babbled in the back seat while you told me those first fragments of your story -- he hates me, and I can’t say I blame him for that. I spend too much time away from him, too much time straining to make out what’s left of your voice. My words were never enough to capture it.

They’ll never be enough to convey how much I miss you, Devin.


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n3m3sis43

March 2017

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