“I Write For”
I write for the girl who set off the code red today. She hates men and screams as they hold her down. She’s wearing hospital scrubs because they took her real clothes away when she tried to strangle herself with her own leggings. She hates men, and she talks to me. She wants to know if I can write her book and maybe I can’t but I can write her story. The story of a girl raped at ten by her brother. Diagnosed as borderline personality disorder by the doctors. Sentenced to state, a life sentence in and of itself. But for now, she’s just kicking it with us.
I write for my little brother who used to play computer games at my elbow. A nervous knock on the door. “Would you tell me a story?” My stories are rambling; they don’t make sense yet. He loves explosions, he loves any sort of silliness. With my brother, I’m not alone in my mind anymore. And now I’m alone so so so much. He writes to me in the hospital. He talks to me about his classes and his dorm. My little brother is in college now and I am in a mental institution.
I write for my former Latin teacher. He made me fall in love with the Latin language, and the Roman culture. With his affable demeanor and the way he commands a classroom, he gives me hope that some teachers are teaching for the right reasons and not a power trip. You could tell he loves language; you could tell he loves us. And dressed all in black, fake lip ring twinkling on my face, I could use someone in authority in my corner. I could use somebody who is willing to listen. I could use somebody who wants to understand.
I write for Susie, who broke my heart when she could no longer climb the stairs. When she scorned food and eventually water, only opening her eyes for the occasional pet. Her illness was every bit as painful for us as it was for her. The same small little tabby that kept my lap warm and cuddled me to sleep is now resting at peace under a rock in the backyard. I know Scout misses her just as much.
I write for Angelina, my little bean that slipped away from me somehow. After three summers together swimming, boating, and playing “horsie” I lost her to the jaws of a disease so malicious it will take the lives of children. Angelina was brave until the end, my soldier with no hair and lots of spunk. Angelina’s Army, has it really been three years? Angelina, I write for us.
I write for the hearts I’ve broken and those who have stolen mine. I write for the one who holds it now. I write for my parents who made countless ER trips and my doctors who took endless phone calls. I write for a random smile, a genuine compliment, or the hug that made my day. If you are reading this, chances are I’m writing it for you.
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