my legs and made me just a little bit dizzy. I found myself leaning a bit too far back; I overcompensated, and then my feet slipped off the ladder rungs.

I fell into the pool, but never felt myself hit the water.

Instead, I felt my head hit the concrete edge, knocking me unconscious. And in that instant, everything— happiness, sorrow, peace, and anger— were all snuffed silent in the implosion.

BREWSTER

62) SWORDSMANSHIP

(I) I did not choose this gift. I cannot help what I am, what I do, I do not choose to rob others of their pain. At best I can mold it, and even direct it, Use it myself, before others use me. I have made that my secret aim, But confessing to Bronte, Scars me like acid rain, Leaving me to drown. In its rising waters, As she leaves. And in that moment, I see my own glaring truth, Her gift to me, there in her eyes. You brought us a new light, But that light is false. So is darkness better Than a heartfelt lie? There’s a rift, Deep in my soul, Between what I wish And what I’ve become, The anger begins to swell, All my own and no one else’s, At the stark, undeniable truth, That my brand of healing Brings only misery. I am defeated, I am lost. She leaves, The door slams, Mobilizing Tennyson. He comes down to my room, To find out what he has missed. He sees my ruined back, chest, and arms. “Put on your shirt,” he says, and tosses it to me. “Sorry,” I tell him, “I know I look horrible.” “No,” he says, “it’s cold, that’s all.” I slip the shirt back on. “Thanks.” I have to admit Tennyson has changed Since the first time I met him, For the better, but also for the worse. He’s much kinder, more honorable somehow, But humbled by an addiction to painkillers. We both know that painkiller is me. “She hates me now,” I tell him. “She’ll get over it,” he says, “I’ll go after her—” “No!” he says, And in his eyes A certain disquiet A distinct desperation At the thought of me leaving, Clear evidence of the addiction. And he looks away, hiding his shame, But I’m more ashamed than him, Because I made him this way. I am not what he needs. Not what they need. “So,” he asks, “Will you stay?” Meaning much more Than just tonight or tomorrow, Or this week or next. “Should I?” He looks away again. “Yes…,” he says, then adds, “But I don’t know if it’s really me talking.” I nod, an understanding reached. “I’m going out to find her, To make things right,” Or at least Properly wrong. (II) Alone with my own thoughts, Searching through a chilly night, Full of memories…. When I was five years old, I spent a week in the hospital
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