LETIZIA’S JOURNAL

  

(written in black ink, half of it smudged like someone shut the book with dirty hands)




I hate this. Writing. Feelings. Diaries. Vomit on a page.

But Olimpia left hers open on the kitchen table again. Like a dare. Like a trap.
I read it. Of course I did. I always do.
She knows. She wants me to read it. Like she wants to poke the sleeping dog and see if it bites or cries.

So fine. Here.
Here’s my version.

I’m not normal. Never was.

I like blood. Fights. Real ones. None of that polite drama school stuff with a slap and a faint. I mean teeth-on-the-floor, scream-until-your-lungs-collapse kind of fights. They make sense to me. They have rules. Win. Lose. Bleed.

But love?
No thanks.

That word’s a straight-jacket. People say “I love you” like it’s supposed to fix everything, like it’s duct tape for a broken soul.
I hear it and I want to punch someone in the throat.

Olimpia says it with her eyes. Worse. I can’t shut them out.

She was everything I hated: rich, pampered, dressed like a Christmas catalogue. I should’ve despised her.
But she had this... crack. Right down the middle. Like something beautiful had gotten broken early and never glued right.
And I liked that. I liked her. Even when I didn’t know what that meant.

She saved me from security guards the day I got sloppy. Thought I could sneak a necklace. Forgot they’d upgraded the sensors. Stupid.
I didn’t ask for help. But she gave it. Looked them straight in the eye and said, “She’s with me.”

No one had ever said that before.

So I stuck around. We started plotting little crimes and bigger dreams. Her world hated me. Fine. I hated them first.

She was drowning in rules and French lessons. I was crawling out of the mud. Somewhere in the mess, we met in the middle.

When we moved in together, it was like setting fire to the past. I gave up the bad habits. Learned to sing properly. Drums came later.
Turns out rhythm makes more sense than people do.

And then came Kunto.

He was a human firework. All nerves and laughter and weird socks. He talked like he was making it all up as he went—and maybe he was.
But he made us believe. That it was okay to be this loud. This weird. This wrong.

He married us. Both. In a garage, with bad wine and electric candles. No priest, no papers. Just us and the noise we made.
I said yes.
I didn’t say I love you.
He never asked me to.

Then he died.
Drank a can of something that wasn’t what it looked like. He dropped halfway through a set and never got back up.

Olimpia went silent. I threw a mic stand across the room. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Nothing ever does.

I kept the can. I don’t know why. It’s in the drawer with the broken sticks and the lace thong he always used as a bookmark.

Sometimes, I think I miss him more than I should. Sometimes, I think I don’t miss him at all and that scares me worse.

Olimpia still plays the old songs and I find my self humming that chant found in the Endless Desert...Scaring...I remember I didn't want to sing it...

I’ll never say the words. Not to her. Not to anyone. But she knows.

She always knows.

And that pisses me off.
And it saves me.
Every time.

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