[DRB]: Letter to No One
Freshly back from yet another stint in Sisika prison, Filly found herself at a loss for what to do. She was the first one back, and with what she’d heard had happened at the house while they were gone, she imagined everyone that hadn’t been picked up had scattered to the winds to lay low.
Curiosity itched at her to know what their home looked like, but she wasn’t sure she could bear to see it after such a long day. Instead, she wrapped herself and her bandaged waist in a thick coat, making the slow horseback trek up to one of their other properties.
She’d planned on sleeping there, but ended up tossing and turning for hours, unable to find a comfortable position to lie down with her healing wound and unable to shake the thoughts that plagued her either. Finally, she gave up, climbed down from her loft bed, and sat on the floor in the living room.
By the light of the fireplace, she drew a loose piece of paper from her bag and began to write:
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
I tell myself I’m not the same, scared girl people met so many months ago. How could I be? Robbery, kidnapping, lying, shooting— everything she was forced to do, I do now of my own volition. I know the feel of a lockpick in my hand better than I ever did my farming tools, and the weight of a gun against my shoulder is no foreign thing anymore.
I never picked up a taste for blood— I still don’t know if I could ever draw first on someone. …Nevertheless, when the gunfire starts, my finger reaches for the trigger without question.
I cannot be the same girl. I cannot cower and cry. I am no naive captive anymore. This is the way of the world, the cards I have been dealt and the hand I do my best to play. I stand my ground when confronted, spit at folks who wrong my friends, and bitterly loathe the girl who lived captive to the mercy of others.
And yet, I cling to her.
I cling to her laughter, her heart, her innocence, her hope— and even her guilt. Who am I if I lose them? I’m crooked now in ways I can’t fix, but I can’t commit to either. I cannot become like the people who bent me, the psychopath who once claimed me as his daughter. I cannot break.
I cling to simple moments and life’s beauties, trying not to lose sight of them. I cling even to dreams of a different path, of peaceful fields and quiet days. I cling to questions and fantasies about a family I don’t remember, in the hopes that one day I might know the truth. I cling to the hope that I was a good person then. I cling to the faith people have in me to be a good person now.
I cling to my friends too though, these people that have become my new family despite all odds. People who would brave a hail of gunfire for me, and I return the favor in kind. People who need me to be strong, to be tough. To not hesitate. I can’t lose them either. I cling to every ounce of control I have to keep them safe, even when it comes at a great cost.
I’m scared I can’t have both.
I’m scared one day I’ll have to choose. Scared that I’ll never choose a peaceful life while I have time. Scared that I will, but at the cost of everyone I care about. I’m scared of what I’m willing to do to protect my friends. Scared that I’ll lose them anyway. Scared of being the person they need me to be and scared of what happens if I can’t be. Scared that Whitman was right.
She glanced down to the heavy bandages around her torso.
I’m scared that one bullet, at the right place, at the right time, will end it all. And none of it will matter anymore.
I’m scared that after everything that’s happened, everything I’ve been through, I’m still just a frightened little bird, cowering in a cage. The only difference now is that I chose it, and I’m the only one holding the key.
And God, how pathetic would that make me.
Filly stared at what she’d written, weighing the gravity of each paragraph with heavy shoulders. Minutes ticked by.
Grimacing from her wound, she leaned forward, surrendering the paper into the roaring fireplace and watching it burn until nothing was left.