Lilac breaths and breathless lilacs. The sky is still and cold and I feel indifferent. I clench my fists at the memories, the lack of tears startling me. Oh, woe is that damnable lie! The countless motionless “I don’t love you’s” and the numerous cackling of, “I couldn’t care less about you, I swear”. I’ve wasted 17 years slaving after a man that didn’t resemble the ones in the picture books. I’ve wasted 17 years slaving after a man that wanted nothing but to see my scars deepen. He was successful too; his mere presence released fiery teeth deepening my cuts every single day. Every single day. The cuts that he caused. It was the horrid loop that trapped me in this cage of fear for 17 years. All that time I spent getting my hopes up on a demon. All that time I read the picture books over and over again hoping the whip would turn into sweet release. Every single person I’ve mentioned this to, and it wasn’t much because he subdued me my only friend silence, they seem to ask, “Isn’t it sad?” They don’t quite understand. Why would they? They must be the ones in the pictures books. They must be the ones that felt love. They must be the ones not dreading walking in the front door. They must be the ones not afraid to be kept alone with him. It was sad, sure, in definition. But not in my case, not in the rare case not mentioned in the universal handbook, the unsung taboo of the world. I look up at the sky again, it turned grey and cloudy and the soft kisses of raindrops filled my eyes, flushing away the memories. I felt the familiar tears but this time it didn’t sting my heart harshly, but instead soothed it. I felt my crushed spirit healing itself inside of me and for the first time in 17 years, I smiled. My oh my, what a gruesome picture. My oh my, how I smiled! If only my mother can see us now! “Isn’t it sad?” “That’s so wretched to hear.” “My condolences.” “How come you aren’t crying?” “Are you not in mourn?” “Isn’t it sad?” If it’s so sad, then please interrogate my beams. Interrogate my scars wrapping itself in warmth. Interrogate my peaceful sleep. Interrogate the lilacs! Interrogate my goddamn smiles! All they see is a grave, those fools. Think of the great men that could have held this grave. Think of the lilies that didn’t have to die just to be plucked near the vile. Don’t pity me; don’t dare to pity me. My father is dead but for the first time in 17 years I am alive.