It goes like this:
Your whole life, you were made to serve. Be a good soldier for Dad, take care of Sammy, do the job. Suffer with your mouth shut.
And when you were at your ugliest, your most broken, someone saved you. Someone – something – so much larger than you, you had to bite at your cheek to stop from kneeling.
An angel. Good things do happen.
But they don’t.
Because he lays it on the line and he rebels, for you, and wipes the blood he put at your mouth away before you can tell him what he already knows, that you’re not worth it. And you dance around each other for years, until you’re on your knees and you say it. I love you. I need you.
And he vanishes, just like every other good thing you tried to have as your own.
And you lose him over and over again and you never learn how to tell him what he is to you, because you told him once and he left. Half of the time he’s a lighthouse, a beacon in the dark, strong enough for you to wreck yourself on. ‘I always come when you call.’ But half the time he’s in the wind, your calls go to voicemail, and you can’t ask him to stay.
You just can’t.
Y ou nestle your hand over the print he left on your shoulder sometimes, and skim your fingers over the ribs you know he carved into. It makes you feel warm.
And even though you know he can’t care, wasn’t built to care that way, would probably break or fall even further if he could, it gets to you. You get mad, and you lash out, and you regret it, but you don’t apologise.
And then you were crossing the room to say, 'I know it doesn't matter but I love you, I've always loved you, I'm so sorry,' but you can't speak and he dies for you. And you can’t get him back. And you were wrong.
He loves you, he said loves you, you still can’t believe it, he’s gone. You fought for the whole world and all of a sudden, you have nothing.
Dean crumples up the piece of paper, scrawls, ‘so it goes’ a la Vonnegut on its raggedy surface, and tosses it in the bin.