The Tragedy that was Kyrith Alvin

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“I am getting married, ratty. I want you to be there.”


It hadn’t even been a full month when he had rejected me so callously, pushed me away from his arms saying he didn’t love me enough. It hadn’t been a full month we have stopped talking and yet, somehow, it seemed many ages have passed. It seemed I have a bent back, white hair, a walking stick and barely any oxygen in left in my lungs.

“I won’t be there.”

I hung up on him and threw away my precious cell-phone. It was the latest blackberry model, good for concealing many things with the way their security and encryption was.

I wasn’t rich, never have been. My mum was a florist with a small rented shop and my dad was a war veteran - handicapped, depressed and with serious PTSD.

Mom and I often struggled to make ends meet since beginning of middle school- with dad’s physio and phsyco therapy, we were just about getting by.

I worked very hard in school to get scholarships for every single semester I could. When I was in high school, mom got sick with cancer. Dad was better by then, thankfully, so he took care of the flower shop and I ran drugs on the street,

It was harrowing - I wanted to be in services where I catch these little shits, but circumstances make learn to tolerate. It was good money, and I was a good athlete - running came easy - from problems or from police.

When I got a full scholarship for college, my mom had already passed away and my dad had more trauma. He didn’t last a month without her.

So with no family holding me back, I sold the one bedroom apartment we all lived in, put the funds for saving , as little as it was, and backpacked to my college.

I wished to go into secret services, I was studying for it as I went to my classes and my part time jobs. When I did pass the exam eventually - after two attempts - I finally switched from flip phone to a smart one.

With the way my world moved, even simplest pleasures were heavenly rewards. After passing the exams, the will it had taken to take away my saving and buying this Blackberry had been an enormous level. It was a huge deal.

And now my beloved blackberry was on the floor, with a cracked screen and a dismantled body.

“I hate him!”

I didn’t. But sometimes screaming like a retard into the empty air lessened a lot of weight from my heart.

“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

I gave myself an hour. Just an hour to cry and hate him and then compartmentalize his ass into the deepest recesses of my brain that I did not like to visit.

I was getting regular stipends with my training, so I took my phone to get it repaired, it cost a pretty fortune but I just didn’t have the pretty pretty fortune it would need to buy a new one. So one pretty was easy expanse than two.

“I hate him so much.”

I truly, genuinely didn’t.

I proved it by going to his wedding, hearing him say his vows, drink his first toast and dance his first dance. I proved it by leaving the jade pendant he had given me as his wedding present. I proved it by the sheer determination to never see or hear from him again.

I proved it by begging my training Chief at secret services for a remote, undisclosed transfer.

I got the transfer, I proved it.

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