A note among a bush, overgrown and concealing a crate made for parchment collecting. The scent of chocolate is long gone, but to one, still faintly detectable. With a heavily folded dog-ear, this note awaits, hastily written, almost crammed into the crate. 7.8.309 AC Dear C.C., I cannot say when the trouble really began. This one hour, the hour before it, or if it came a long while ago and simply never surfaced before, like it did today. "Doing this on your cousin's grave. This is low." "I had no choice." An indignant gleam, far off yet point-blank, rested in the eyes. A look seen before, in the moment of cunning in an animal. Before the fighting or fleeing. Sometimes, I can feel myself clawing from the inside, hoping for something to come out. Sometimes, I hope to say so much more, but I don't. I either lacked the willpower, the ability, the strength, the capability. It feels different now, but not by much. I wanted to rip and tear free. I wanted to feel enough to scream. Inside, I screamed. "Flawed." A scowl. Moments before, an embrace. How it felt like a ghost then, far off and foreign. "This is the lowest mistake you've made." Sometimes, I forget to feel at all. But it's not really forgetting. C.C., you told me of loss before. I always had a sense of understanding, and now a greater morsel of understanding is within me. But tell me this: "Do you ever feel proud of me?" He stopped and didn't look at her. With only a back to look at, he said, "On that hunting trail, when you were truly yourself." Why is it when I must need words to succeed me, when time and the moment are of the essence; why do these things fail me the most and I am left to suffer the consequences of my own failure? That answer was not 'Always.' That answer was not 'I am proud, and I love you.' She swallowed it whole and let him leave. Things I ponder on this late hour, The Wordsmith
