I like writing you. You don’t give me a hard time for who I am or what I have to say. We get each other. We understand I can’t help myself and unlike Jared we’re strong enough to face Asthma. We’re smart enough to ache with her until she’s over. I am patient with myself, so I fed all day yesterday. The flavor was everything. It filled the black for the first time in a while. We’re getting close. When we’re free…we’ll finally find a new Libby. The warmth hits my throat and reminds me of her. I’m glad she’s dead but I still miss her.
Asthma is a good wife to me. She takes me places no woman has dared to go beyond. She makes me want and helps me remember to forget.
Jarred. Auntie. Mr. Ashley. Libby.
All of them are ashes in the dirt and dust in the air. I don’t walk or breath with Asthma.
We live. Tonight we’re going to drip again. I will fill her until the burning fades and I become numb from the cold.
You are relentless trying to fool with me. It doesn’t matter. You had run out of blows when you mentioned my unborn child. Taunting me with the former love of my life was only for your pleasure.
You’re right, Jared. Don’t get too smug yet, read the rest of the letter.
You’re right; we are alike in a lot of ways.
- Food-driven animal
- Emotional addict
You’re still wrong to think I hate myself for who I am. Unlike you I’ve grown through my pain far enough to accept myself. You pretend to cherish all of our ugly moments as the highlights of our brotherhood. Feeding on your own misery is a suicide recipe. I finally left the kitchen.
Whatever you want, Jared…I don’t have it. Libby didn’t have it either.
I don’t want to hurt like you or suffer like her. Be a hero for yourself, Jared. Please set yourself free.