Prologue
I guess you want reasons.
People always want reasons. Neat lines drawn from
Point A to Point B, as if that makes the end less ugly.
I wish it worked like that. It doesn’t. Some days you
can trace every step, every cut, every shitty choice.
Other days it’s just static. There’s no pattern, just
noise, and you pray for quiet.
If you’re reading this, I guess you found me. Or
what’s left. Maybe you were the first through the door,
or maybe you were just cleaning up after the mess.
Either way: sorry.
I tried. If you need that in writing, there it is: I tried. I
tried to be something better. I tried to run from who I
was, or maybe toward something that made sense,
even if it was brutal. Turns out, sometimes the only
thing you’re running from is the truth. You can outrun
a lot—pain, guilt, the look on your mother’s face. You
can’t outrun yourself.
I’m not writing this to blame anybody. Not my family,
not my friends, not the people who pretended to love
me. I’m not writing to ask for forgiveness, either.
Forgiveness is for people who plan on sticking
around. I just want… I don’t know. To leave
something behind. A mark. A story someone
remembers, even if it’s the wrong one.
There’s a lot I could say. Some of it matters, most of
it doesn’t. The rest is locked away where nobody can
get to it. Not even me.
If you ever wondered what was going on in my head,
you’ll never know, there won’t be anything left to
study, but I can help.
Let me start with my name, even if you already know.
My name is—
