Bang Barry Lyga Quotes

People can wonder and ponder and imagine all they want. But their curiosity does not entitle them to enter my world.

I'm still not ready to believe time heals wounds, but I think maybe something else does. We heal wounds. Not time. Us.

Nice is the white bread of the English language adjective breadbox. It’s tasteless, bland, and forgettable.

(O)ur lives are the sum of our mistakes as well as our triumphs...

There's a difference between what you'll do in your mind and what you'll actually do for real.

I can't stop you from killing yourself. If that's what you truly want, no one can stop you. I can't be around twenty-four hours a day, looking after you. But if that's what you want, don't you think you owe it to your mother to talk to her first?

Like the games. I love these old games. The simplicity of them. You master them. You play them. You play until you lose. There are no complicated button combos or secret cheat codes or hidden trophies to collect. The achievement lies in lasting as long as you can, until you die. Like life. Last as long as you can. Hold on as long as possible. And there's no shame in losing, because everyone loses. It's just that everyone has a different score. And the scores don't really matter after all. They disappear when you turn the game.

Less than I want. More than I deserve.

She strokes my cheek. "Don't hate yourself, sweetheart. It gets you nothing. It gets you nowhere.

Somethings are private. And they should stay that way and they get to stay that way. This isn't preschool; I don't have to share.

Popular culture woefully underprepares us for actual therapy.

...rarely do the 'significant events' in our lives change us. At least, not in any way we want. The people who suffer tragedy and go on to greatness? They're the stuff of movies and TV shows and books, and--only very rarely--real life. Most of us just go on, the walking wounded, dealing with our lives. This doesn't make us bad--it just means we're not superheroes. It means we're just people, like everyone else.

[...] I think, "I can do this. I think I can do this. I think I can make it through the summer. One last summer. That's not so bad, right?" In bed, the voice says nothing, but its silence tells me everything.

I need rituals, traditions like this one. Dr. Kennedy used to tell me that getting through life—especially after "a trauma like yours"—is sort of like swinging through the jungle on vines like Tarzan. [...] "Each time you start to lose momentum," Dr. Kennedy would say, "you look ahead to the next vine. And you jump for it, Sebastian. You don't think about it; you don't worry about it. You jump and you trust that you have the strength and the momentum to grasp that next vine." Every time I leap, I think this is the time my reach exceeds my grasp, this is the time my fingers will close on nothing but empty air, and I will plummet into green and the death of the jungle. I'm wrong every time. So far.

I can't believe I fell for it. I can't believe I fooled myself without even trying. That I tricked myself into thinking that I could be happy, that I could be normal, that I could ignore the voice and it would go away, dissipate like smoke in open air. That the voice had gone away, that it ever could go away. And I realize the voice is screaming at me. No longer whispering. More than that, I realize it's been screaming for a while now. I just wasn't paying attention. But now I am. Now I am. "Is it time?" And the voice says, "Yes. Now." It makes perfect sense, suicide does. An end to pain, to misunderstanding. An end to my existence as a walking, talking, living, breathing reminder to my mother of what was taken from her. Why has it taken me so long? What have I let my pathetic excuse for a life drag on this long? I know why. Deep down, I know. I wasn't ready. Not before. Not like I am now. I've been preparing. I haven't been steeling myself for suicide. The suicide is actually the easy part. It's the other thing. The other thing. That's what I've been preparing for.

There's an old song that says, "Suicide is painless." I'm not foolish enough to believe that's always the case, but I do know this: Suicide ends pain.

I suppose the thought of it should be comforting to me, the idea that a lifetime is measured not in time, but in understanding.

I don't know how to quantify the way I am around her, the person I am. When I'm with her, I feel hope. Possibility. It clings to me like a scent.

I consider it the me-equivalent of the Bible-most likely full of nonsense, but comforting to fantasize about.

Most of us just go on, the walking wounded, dealing with our lives.

She listened to me and didn't try to fix things. She was open and kind, and when she raised her eyebrows, I thought my heart would stop beating in my chest....I treated her like a remedy, not a person.

I could have lied to you. It would have been a lot easier. I could have told you I was gay. Or blamed my dad, or my religion. I could have said that I had a boyfriend back in Baltimore. Because guys will listen when you tell them you belong to someone else. Like, you'll respect some made-up guy, but not me. I thought you were different. I trusted you. I told you the truth.

Rich people can afford anything, even better laughter.

She chuckles. "You're apologizing again! All is right with the world.

I surrender. Sometimes I feel like that's all I do with her.

The key word is "friend-zone" is friend.

The distractions then were card catalogs and dust and the smell of old paper and ink. The distractions were deep.

What am I doing? With the pizza stuff, with Aneesa? How have I lost sight of what's important, what matters? The plan I've had for years now, the one that was coming, marching relentlessly toward me. Is it because I'm happy? Am I happy? I don't even know. Like love, it's too foreign for me to translate. And does it even matter what I feel now, in the present? Does that override the past? Can it? Do I deserve to be happy? No. Of course not. I lost sight, yes, but I haven't forgotten. I promise I haven't. I'm still going to do it. Yes. I am. I just need some more time. I'm not stalling. It's only a matter of time. A matter of when, not if. I promise.

[...] now it's like something's been born. Unintentionally, sure, but good, in its own way. But holding me back? Maybe? I don't know anymore. I don't know anything. I want to keep baking pizza. I want to go away. I want to figure out how Aneesa feels about me. I want to end it all. I want. I want. I want. I want too much and I don't know what I want at all. It used to be so easy, so clear.

My hand throbs with leftover pain. I hit something. Something. Not someone. The flat of my palm, smacking against Ms. Benitez's desk. Now I remember. Her stapler jumped. So did she. "Don't talk about my sister." I blacked out. Went into a fugue state. Sank deep into the static, where sound and light and memory could not find me.

Does this happen to you a lot?" I think of vomiting at Mom's bringing up Lola. Of the rage that picked me up when Mark said "Jihadi Jane." The time that vanished when I read the YouTube comments. And other times in my past. Times when I go away, but I'm still here.

[...] I know it doesn't matter what I've promised because I will not live to have the conversation in the first place. I'm so good at pretending. I'm a liar. I've lied to everyone. To every person in my life, to everyone I know. I've never told the truth. I've lied to them all. [...] Everyone keeps saying that if I could remember, it would help. That's what they've said all along. And the thing is this: I remember doing it. I remember every single bit of it.

I was a child. It was an accident. It wasn't my fault. *Why is there so much red?* Not understanding. But I understand now. I'm told. *Where's Lola????* But I've never told. I was four years old. *WHY IS THERE SO MUCH RED? WHY IS THERE SO MUCH RED?*

I remember. I've always remembered. There hasn't been a moment of my life when I haven't remembered. And it hasn't helped at all. Which means nothing will ever help. Which means I'll never get over it. Never never never. Which means there's only one thing to do. I've known it all along. One thing and it's an easy thing, so easy, and I'm so angry at myself for waiting so long. I should have done it years ago. I never should have met Aneesa. I never should have met Evan. I should have been dead so long ago.

I remember. I've always remembered. There hasn't been a moment of my life when I haven't remembered. And it hasn't helped at all. Which means nothing will ever help. Which means I'll never get over it. Never never never. Which means there's only one thing to do. I've known it all along. One thing and it's an easy thing, so easy, and I'm so angry at myself for waiting so long. I should have done it years ago. I never should have met Aneesa. I never should have met Evan. I should have been dead so long ago. [...] the only thing that keeps me going is knowing that it's almost over. Almost. So close.

I'm beneath notice. As it should be. [...] then I'm gone as if I've never been here. And soon, it will be as though I never were. I am going to join Lola in the memory hole. It is my proper place. It is where I deserve to be consigned. [...] Once she forgets me, maybe then she can remember. And that, more than anything, will count as me doing something productive.

The abrasion is good. It reminds me I'm alive, that I haven't done it yet, that it still needs to be done. If only it were raining. It would be the perfect night. It'll have to do. [...] I turn off the phone. I feel light. Effortless. Gravity has no hold on me. I'm going to do it. I'm really going to do it. The last thing I'll do. I'll do what I need to do. And then I'll put the barrel in my mouth and angle it up so that the bullet is sure to go through my brain and I'll pull the trigger and at last it will all be over. There's nothing to stop me. I'm amazed. There's absolutely nothing to stop me.

I can't take it anymore. I thought maybe there would be one last conversation, but I can't take it. [...] I've thought of it often, over the years, obsessing over it, designing it in my imagination over and over, tweaking and revising [...]

I said, "I don't want you to go." And he said, "I don't want to go either." And I couldn't understand it. If he didn't want to go, then why was he going? Couldn't he just not go, then? [...] I'm tired of it. I'm tired of him. Tired of me. I want it over. I can end it. It's my choice; I'm in control. It's always been my choice, and I've always been in control. [...] "Do it, then!" my father cried, and the voice inside me shouted it at the same time. And I can't. I can only do it by accident. And the gun falls from my numb fingers and I collapse, weeping, into my father's arms.

Why couldn't we be one of those families? Why do we have to be us? "I just want something normal," I tell him. "I just want to feel normal." [...] "I can't stop you from killing yourself. If that's what you truly want, no one can stop you. I can't be around twenty-four hours a day, looking after you. But if that's what you want, don't you think you owe it to your mother to talk to her first?

I don't know." But I do know. Because I was four. Because I understood I'd done something very, very bad. I knew it made people upset and angry. So it was easier to pretend I didn't remember doing it. The kind of logic only a four-year-old can appreciate, the kind of logic I stumble to explain to her. [...] "I hate you!" Her arms locked at her sides, fists clenched, eyes screwed tightly shut, she screams it at the top of her voice. "Are you happy now? Is that what you want to hear? I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU! You killed her! You murdered my little baby girl! I hate you, Sebastian—God, I fucking hate you!" [...] "That's okay," I tell her. [...] I say, "I'm sorry." [...] "Mom, I have to talk about it. I have to, okay? I can't go on like this. I've been—" *thinking of killing myself* is the end of that sentence, but not something I can say to her. Not yet. Not even now. "I've been so sad," I say instead.

People have been telling me that "time heals all wounds" my entire life. I never really believed them—scabs and scars form, I figured, but I didn't imagine that the wounds themselves ever truly healed. They just lurk beneath the new surface, as raw and as sensitive as the day they were made. They're just not visible any longer. They're just not exposed. I'm still not ready to believe time heals wounds, but I think maybe something else does. We heal wounds. Not time. Us.

Someone has to destroy and re-create the documents. Someone knows. Someone remembers. Everyone thinks "poor kid." Everyone thinks "Thank God that's not me." But you know what? I'm okay being me. No matter how bad it's been for me, it's been worse for someone else. [...] The people who suffer tragedy and go on to greatness? They're the stuff of movies and TV shows and books, and—only very rarely—real life. Most of us just go on, the walking wounded, dealing with our lives. This doesn't make us bad—it just means we're not superheroes. It means we're just people, like everyone else. But I'll bite. I'll play.

She was funny and quick-witted, and she cared for me in a way I wasn't used to, a way I couldn't really process. She laughed at my jokes even when they weren't funny. She listened to me and didn't try to fix things. [...] Unconditional acceptance. She wasn't afraid to look at the darkness and keep smiling. Unlike everyone else, who either looked and then looked away, ashamed, or gawked. But more important, she was different. She was like no one I'd ever met before. And, to my shame, I allowed that to consume me. I was so used to being an outcast that I thought only of what made her different, too, thinking that this bonded us, that I couldn't possibly have anything to offer other than commiseration. And I fell in love with her. Far too hard and far too soon. And I just assumed that the feelings were reciprocated. Not really because of anything she did—though I convinced myself certain things mattered more than they did—but mostly because that's what I needed in the moment. I treated her like a remedy, not a person.

I realize now that she made it possible for me not to think about other things, things I'm not going to talk about in this essay because they're none of your business. They're no one's business. And that, truly, is the major life-changing moment I'm writing about. My epiphany, if you will. Some things are private. And they should stay that way and they get to stay that way. This isn't preschool; I don't have to share. I don't have to tell unless I want to. My "significant events" can be personal and hidden and they're still real. [...] They're still mine and they still matter, [...] People can wonder and ponder and imagine all they want. But their curiosity does not entitle them to enter my world.

The world is filled with invisible, theoretical assassins, armed projections of our deepest ids, bearing guns loaded with wish-bullets. If you listen closely, you can hear them singing as they whiz by your head, always passing harmlessly through their intended targets.

I'm not afraid to die. Not even by my own hand. [...] I do know this: Suicide ends pain. The only question is: How badly do you want to end the pain? How badly do you need to? I don't know yet. I don't have the answer. But the question always echoes, most loudly when I'm alone. [...] See, I'm in control. My future and my fate are in my hands, no one else's. I can do it or I can not. I can do it now or put it off indefinitely. That's not scary. It's comforting. Sometimes, it's the only comfort I have. Not always, though.

Sometimes I wonder: Why can't they just see me, not the kid who killed? But then I wonder: Is it because the two are the same? It's bad enough to feel like an outsider. Even worse is when when I wonder: Is this new behavior, or has she been like this all along and I just never noticed? What have I been missing?

Sometimes I wonder: Why can't they just see me, not the kid who killed? But then I wonder: Is it because the two are the same? It's bad enough to feel like an outsider. Even worse is when I wonder: Is this new behavior, or has she been like this all along and I just never noticed? What have I been missing?

The truth is, it doesn't matter. The truth is, it was ten years ago, and I didn't know Evan or his family then, and it's my history, not theirs. The truth is, I didn't wield a hunting rifle that day. The truth is, nothing anyone does it says can change what already happened. The truth is, guns are part of the world, of Brookdale, of life, and I can't, won't, and don't fall to pieces every time I see one. The truth is, I don't care about his guns.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. The truth is, it was ten years ago, and I didn't know Evan or his family then, and it's my history, not theirs. The truth is, I didn't wield a hunting rifle that day. The truth is, nothing anyone does or says can change what already happened. The truth is, guns are part of the world, of Brookdale, of life, and I can't, won't, and don't fall to pieces every time I see one. The truth is, I don't care about his guns.

I need rituals, traditions like this one. Dr. Kennedy used to tell me that getting through life--especially after "a trauma like yours"--is sort of like swinging through the jungle on vines like Tarzan. [...] "Each time you start to lose momentum," Dr. Kennedy would say, "you look ahead to the next vine. And you jump for it, Sebastian. You don't think about it; you don't worry about it. You jump and you trust that you have the strength and the momentum to grasp that nest vine." Every time I leap, I think this is the time my reach exceeds my grasp, this is the time my fingers will close on nothing but empty air, and I will plummet into the green and the death of the jungle. I'm wrong every time. So far.

need rituals, traditions like this one. Dr. Kennedy used to tell me that getting through life--especially after "a trauma like yours"--is sort of like swinging through the jungle on vines like Tarzan. [...] "Each time you start to lose momentum," Dr. Kennedy would say, "you look ahead to the next vine. And you jump for it, Sebastian. You don't think about it; you don't worry about it. You jump and you trust that you have the strength and the momentum to grasp that next vine." Every time I leap, I think this is the time my reach exceeds my grasp, this is the time my fingers will close on nothing but empty air, and I will plummet into the green and the death of the jungle. I'm wrong every time. So far.

As I pass over the front-door threshold, it lands on me that I won't see Evan again this summer, and I suddenly feel like a small child whose mother was right there a minute ago but has now disappeared. I want to hug him, to cling to him, and I'm not sure why; [...] it hits me anew: a summer without Evan. I know what that means. What it will mean, this change in the status quo. During the school year, I always had school to distract me. Over the summers, I always had Evan. Now, for the first time in a long time, I'll be alone with myself and with the voice from far back in my brain. [...] And now I don't know quite what to expect. Or maybe I do. And that's both the problem and the solution.

I can't tell Mom. Can't tell her that her insistence on my productivity doesn't matter. That her insistence that I think about my future doesn't matter. None of that matters. I won't be around in the future. The decision has already been made. I won't be around. Whether it's now or in a week or in a few months. It's going to happen. Soon. I'm almost relieved.

Like life. Last as long as you can. Hold on as long as possible. And there's no shame in losing, because everyone loses. It's just that everyone has a different score. And the scores don't really matter after all. They disappear when you turn off the game.

Bang, they say. Bang. And bang. And bang. I pull my hand into my lap, lest my acid touch sear her. Bang. Guns. Big guns. Yes, I've fired one once. Yes, I'll do it again. But maybe. I look over at Aneesa. Maybe not just yet. Maybe not right away.

Another year down. Ten years. No one said anything. No one ever says anything. Nothing online. Nothing in the Sunday edition of the "Lowe County Times"—"the Loco"—that Mom still has delivered every week. Memory holes are efficient.

I'm no good at the new games because I rarely play them. I like old things. Old books. Old movies. Old TV shows. It's not that life seemed simpler "back then." It's that it was more complicated. [...] Life was more complicated, but it was quieter, I bet. Slower. [...] The distractions then were card catalogs and dust and the smell of old paper and ink. The distractions were deep. I wonder what it would be like to go back in time, to live as long ago as the 1980s, or even further back. To know what was to come.

[...] symbolism is bullshit. Because my sister's room is not preserved, but no one has moved on. We're all still stuck in place. [...] I don't want to remember it. Memories go into the memory hole. That's where they belong. [...] There may be symbols and symbolism in books and movies—sometimes it's even fun to find them—but in real life, we only have boxes and bags, old sagging shelves, and attics with fake Christmas trees. And none of it means anything. It's all just the detritus of life, our own jetsam, heaved overboard, then washed back to us by the waves and the tides. Coming around and around again. And the water disgorges the same sights, same house, same me, same Mom.

I don't want to think about or start thinking about figuring out my life, for whatever it's worth. [...] And almost without realizing, I'm telling her to shut up. And she won't, so I'm telling her to seriously shut up, to shut her big fat stinking mouth, and she's a blur through my tears and I can't hear her voice through my own yelling—I don't know when I started yelling—as I'm up from the table—running—bathroom—just in time—tears and snot and then leaning over the toilet, vomiting [...] I spit the last bits into the water, crouched down, clinging to the tank and the rim of the bowl as though I could fall in and drown.

A glut of emotions roils inside me. I'm ashamed of yelling at her, of running away, of throwing up. I'm furious at her for bringing up the past. I'm outraged. I'm exhausted. [...] "You can't do this to me," I tell her. "When I try to talk about it, you decide it's not time. But then you go and spring it on me. It's not fair," [...] I tell her to fuck off. I tell her I can't think straight. I tell her to go to hell. I tell her I'll do it. I tell her I can't do it. I tell her it's pointless. I tell her none of those things. [...] that's all pointless speculation. Because this summer will be my last. And that, most likely, is why I really reacted the way I did. Because it's true and it's coming and it's happening, and she's acting like this is just any other summer. Not that she knows. Not that I can tell her.

I'm not afraid to die. Not even by my own hand. There's an old song that says, "Suicide is painless." I'm not foolish enough to believe that's always the case, but I do know this: Suicide ends pain. The only question is: How badly do you want to end the pain? How badly do you need to? I don't know yet. I don't have the answer. But the question always echoes, most loudly when I'm alone. [...] See, I'm in control. My future and my fate are in my hands, no one else's. I can do it or I can not. I can do it now or put it off indefinitely. That's not scary. It's comforting. Sometimes, it's the only comfort I have. Not always, though.

I don't know how to quantify the way I am around her, the person I am. When I'm with her, I feel hope. Possibility. It clings to me like a scent. Is this what love feels like? I've never felt it before, and I've never felt this before, so maybe they're the same. I could stay, maybe. For her, yes. I could stay. [...] But it was fun to think about it. Fun to pretend. Fun to have someone who—for a little while—cared as much as I do.

In the cold light of day, what seemed like a moderately ridiculous notion has become... surprisingly... possible.

If I'm going to do this, I want to do it well. And I want people to acknowledge that. "It's all just a distraction," says the voice one night. It catches me off guard. I'd almost forgotten the voice. Is it speaking the truth? Is this all just a distraction? A pleasant diversion before the gruesome finale, what they call in opera the "Grand Guignol"? Just a distraction. But a good one.

What am I doing? With the pizza stuff, with Aneesa? How have I lost sight of what's important, what matters? The plan I've had for years now, the one that was coming, marching relentlessly toward me. Is it because I'm happy? Am I happy? I don't even know. Like love, it's too foreign for me to translate. And does it even matter what I feel now, in the present? Does that override the past? Can it? Do I deserve to be happy? No. Of course not. I lost sight, yes, but I haven't forgotten. I promise I haven't. I'm still going to do it. Yes. I am. I just need some more time. I'm not stalling. It's only just a matter of time. A matter of when, not if. I promise.

[...] when you see your friend—or someone you think and hope might someday be more—abused, you do what you can to stop it. Who doesn't do that? What kind of person doesn't do that?

[...] I suddenly do want to. I don't know why. I don't understand it. I'm not even sniffing around the edges of understanding it, but suddenly I want more than anything in the world to tell her. [...] I want to tell her because I realize now that it's true: I love her and I need her to know, and if I don't say it now, I'll never say it, and it has to come from me.

You can't treat me any differently. You can't do that." I mean to sound insistent and confident, but pleading has crept into my voice. I'm begging, not demanding. "It's not fair to treat me differently. You were the only person in this town who didn't know. I didn't have to tell you.

[...] now it's like something's been born. Unintentionally, sure, but good, in its own way. But holding me back? Maybe? I don't know anymore. I don't know anything. I want to keep baking pizza. I want to go away. I want to figure out how Aneesa feels about me. I want to end it all. I want. I want. I want. I want too much and I don't know what I want at all. It used to be so easy, so clear.

After a little while, she takes my hand. Less than I want. More than I deserve. [...] Why didn't I kiss her? Because I'm going away. Am I? Am I still? I think. I think I need to. I think.

A significant event in your life, and what you would or would not change about it. A significant event in your life. And what you would. Or would not. Change about it." Are you fucking kidding me? How about: not pulled the fucking trigger?

Get out," I tell her, my voice dull. Lifeless. "Look, we should—" So now I scream it. I feel cords standing out in my neck, cords I've never felt before. I feel a sharp, almost painful tug deep in my throat. Aneesa leaves. She leaves. She leaves me alone. Which is right. Which is how it should be. [...] The roar of the ocean is back. The buzz in my ears intensifies.

My hand throbs with leftover pain. I hit something. Something. Not someone. The flat of my palm, smacking against Ms. Benitez's desk. Now I remember. Her stapler jumped. So did she. "Don't talk about my sister." I blacked out. Went into a fugue state. Sank deep into the static, where sound and light and memory could not find me. [...] "Does this happen to you a lot?" I think of vomiting at Mom's bringing up Lola. Of the rage that picked me up when Mark said "Jihadi Jane." The time that vanished when I read the YouTube comments. And other times in my past. Time when I go away, but I'm still here.

I can't believe I fell for it. I can't believe I fooled myself without even trying. That I tricked myself into thinking that I could be happy, that I could be normal, that I could ignore the voice and it would go away, dissipate like smoke in open air. That the voice had gone away, that it ever could go away. And I realize the voice is screaming at me. No longer whispering. More than that, I realize it's been screaming for a while now. I just wasn't paying attention. But now I am. Now I am. "Is it time?" And the voice says, "Yes. Now." It makes perfect sense, suicide does. An end to pain, to misunderstanding. An end to my existence as a walking, talking, living, breathing reminder to my mother of what was taken from her. Why has it taken me so long? Why have I let my pathetic excuse for a life drag on this long? I know why. Deep down, I know. I wasn't ready. Not before. Not like I am now. I've been preparing. I haven't been steeling myself for suicide. The suicide is actually the easy part. It's the other thing. The other thing. That's what I've been preparing for.

Even though the story takes place in the past, it feels very much like the present or the near future. It feels like something incipient, imminent, pervasive. Like a fog so cold it's a thousand needles in your skin, just barely breaking the surface.

I have no reason not to believe any of the things I've been told. I'm told so many things. I was a child. It was an accident. It wasn't my fault. I'm told. I was four years old.

I like the rain. I like it ferocious and I like it gentle. I like sudden showers that last the afternoon and sprinkles that don't last the time it takes to run to the car. Rain is clean.

I'm sorry," I want to say, but don't. Every time my mother tells me she loves me, this is what I want to say.

That night, after dark, before the rain, I sneak out of the house. I've mastered this particular skill over the course of many dead nights, when the silence is too loud and the solitude too confining. [...] the truth is, I could simply leave.

This is where. This is where it will happen. This is where I will do it. When the time comes. I've fired a gun once in my life. I'll do it again. When the time comes.

On such flimsy foundations are best friendships built.

Another year down. Ten years. No one said anything. No one ever says anything. Nothing online. Nothing in the Sunday edition of the "Lowe County times"--"the Loco"--that Mom still has delivered every week. Memory holes are efficient.

No one else needs to feel bad about what happened. Only one person.

No one else needs to feel bad about what happened. Only one person. I wish there were a way to assuage him, a way to tell him, "It's all right. You don't have to step around the rusty nails and broken glass of my past. Don't beat yourself up." But the only way to do that would be to acknowledge it in the first place, to say it happened, and I can't do that. When I try to talk about it, everything goes haywire.

I'm no good at the new games because I rarely play them. I like old things. Old books. Old movies. Old TV shows. [...] Life was more complicated, but it was quieter, I bet. Slower. [...] The distractions then were card catalogs and dust and the smell of old paper and ink. The distractions were deep. I wonder what it would be like to go back in time, to live as long ago as the 1980s, or even further back. To know what was to come.

[...] symbolism is bullshit. Because my sister's room is not preserved, but no one has moved on. We're all still stuck in place.

I don't want to remember it. Memories go into the memory hole. That's where they belong. [...] There may be symbols and symbolism in books and movies--sometimes it's even fun to find them--but in real life, we only have boxes and bags, old sagging shelves, and attics with fake Christmas trees. And none of it means anything. It's all just the detritus of life, our own jetsam, heaved overboard, then washed back to us by the waves and the tides. Coming around and around again. And the water disgorges the same sights, same house, same me, same Mom.

I try to stay out of her way. This is just something I do. I avoid her. [...] I don't want her to see me too often, to encounter me, to deal with me. Me, this walking, talking, living, breathing, eating, shitting, farting reminder of what she's had and what she's lost. [...] I don't linger in the house. I sleep in late, stay out late, keep my bedroom door closed when I'm home. I make myself invisible, intangible. It's easier for her, easier for me, just easier, period.

[...] if I say nothing, she gets angry, and I don't like to make her angry. Not because of anything she does or says when she's angry, but just because making her angry makes me sad. She doesn't deserve it.

I don't want to think about or start thinking about figuring out my life, for whatever it's worth.

A glut of emotions roils inside me. I'm ashamed of yelling at her, of running away, of throwing up. I'm furious at her for bringing up the past. I'm outraged. I'm exhausted. [...] "You can't do this to me," I tell her. "When I try to talk about it, you decide it's not time. But then you go and spring it on me. It's not fair." [...] I tell her to fuck off. I tell her I can't think straight. I tell her to go to hell. I tell her I'll do it. I tell her I can't do it. I tell her it's pointless. I tell her none of those things. [...] that's all pointless speculation. Because this summer will be my last. And that, most likely, is why I really reacted the way I did. Because it's true and it's coming and it's happening, and she's acting like this is just any other summer. Not that she knows. Not that I can tell her.

I don't know." And I don't. But I don't care. I don't care about anything. I can't believe that I'm standing here, talking to her.

When I'm with other people, I usually don't think about it. Sometimes, it catches me off-guard, but I usually don't. When I'm alone, it's all I can think about.

Sorry," I tell her. "I don't have any secrets. I'm not interesting enough." It doesn't hit me until later that I've lied. It felt so natural.

The truth is that today I had no destination. For some reason, I just had to ride past her house and see her. But that isn't the sort of thing you can confess to a girl while she is cleaning up from nursing you back to health. Or ever.

I jam my hands into my pockets because otherwise I'm afraid I'll try to hold hers. That's the sort of stupid thing I would do.

I have a bunch of friends with siblings. Half the time they seem to love it and half the time it's like they just wish they could kill them, you know?" Oh. Oh. So... [...] So... So casually. She said it so casually. People say it all the time, those words. "I could just kill him." "I swear, if she pisses me off again, I'll kill her." "Sometimes I just want to kill that guy." The world is filled with invisible, theoretical assassins, [...]

Life is so much easier when you just give people what they expect.