Erased, a novel
Chapter 16- Subtle Securities
Mr. Wells- I made it through the chill, now I'm keeping my balance and surfing this heat wave. I've always loved the weather in South Florida; that was before I needed to wrangle with it. I've been dodging the sun all day, but it's dancing. It's not a quick step, it's more like a slow romantic and sweetly fluid motion. This is my second summer out here. This summer is hotter, and I'm thinking of cutting the beard I've been growing. All of this is an unlikely position for someone with security holdings. It's easy to rush out and start trying to fix things, but sometimes fixing things is about understanding what's going on. When my buildings caught fire, I thought I'd bounce back, but here I am watching the ducks swim in a temporary pond. It's the left overs from last night's cool down showers. I've been thinking a lot about temporary ponds. I'm wondering if it's apparent to the ducks, and if it is, why didn't they reject it. Instead they carry on with so much gratitude. That's the way I try to live while I'm out here. It's the temporary pond I've chosen, and something says it's the best way to preserve what hasn't been destroyed. The notes are really my only confirmation that this is all no happenstance, except for my natural belief that nothing in life is happenstance. I try to remember this every time there's a relapse. There aren't that many, but the ones I've seen are really heart breaking. It's the moment you see that face that's been missing for a season, and then shows up all filled out; not boney and hollowed. It's tough to see the rehabilitation shrink back to nothing, so I try to remember it all serves a higher purpose. That's as long as you're eyes are projected upward, otherwise there's no getting up from a shirt covered with vomit, a pants drenched in urine, and the stares that come when you have to stretch your hands out to those who have never loss their step. I'm also trying to remember the dream I had overnight. It's the first I've had since I been out here. I was walking and holding the hand of a woman. I couldn't see her. I could only hear her voice. It sounded like we were married from the way she spoke. The setting was a setting from childhood. We walked, and she talked until I was sitting on a bench alone. The sun was setting, and my friend showed up with the paper. We divided it as always, and then I woke up. I've got her voice registered, but her words are drowned out. I'm thinking maybe it's just a temporary pond. Perhaps I should just bathe in it for the day, and then let it dry up. I don't know. I'll see.
Chapter 17- Breathing On Purpose
Morgan- I'm no nobleman but what if being noble isn't a lifetime affair, but rather moments where we are noble. I've made a mess of my life, and many others. I belong here. That's no debate. I'm regretful, but I have to keep it down under my skin or I die. The question has certainly been asked, "Why aren't you dead?" No matter how bad you've been, nothing really prepares you for such a question. When I saw the book and the publisher, I immediately knew the answer. I never thought she could come out of her shell that way, but she had, and she was still coming. I know because I'm following her stuff now. I've written four letters already. She hasn't responded, but her husband has come to see me. I know it's him, and I'm fine with that. After all I didn't respond to his letter. If it's his ego that brought him here, I hope it's strong and not just puffed up. Besides, I'm still her father, and he never got my permission.
It's a busy day for visits. No one expected I'd get one. I'm looking at all the excitement, but all I have to offer is curiosity. I sit behind the glass where I'm directed, and I can see that he's both puffed up and strong. I don't think he's blinked since I sat down, and neither one of us reaches for the phone. A few more moments go by, and he walks away.
"Punk!" I yelled. I knew he couldn't hear me; I was sure of it, but he turned around and sat back down. This time he decisively picked up the phone. I did too.
"Why didn't you return the letter?"
"It wasn't addressed to you."
"I'm her husband, and you're her abuser. Don't you think she deserves to be protected?"
"That's precisely why I sent the letter."
"Then tell me what I need to know."
"Does she know you're here?"
"What do you care."
"I care." I'd said the words I had hoped all of my words and letters had conveyed to my daughter.
"About what exactly?" The question carried a spark with it that tried to pull me into a river of thinking. I refused the pull.
"Look, there's a guy that works at the Gazette. His name is Porter. Tell him you need the log on The Simpletons. If he asks, tell him I sent you. Keep this quiet, and whatever you do, don't play hard ball with them. And don't write me anymore letters. It's not safe."
"Got it. And likewise with the letters. You've done enough, just let her live."
"Nothing I can do to harm her from here. Follow the leads." There was no thank you, no good-bye, and still no permissions, but I could see that she was in good hands; hands I decided I could respect. I took the walk back to my block, and I finally understood all the excitement about the visits. There's something that lingers; a feeling that you matter. And it helps to keep the grime down under the skin.
Erased, a novel
Copyright 2018 by Natisha Renee Williams, All Rights Reserved
Grace Call Communications, LLC Copyright 2018
Chapter 16- Subtle Securities
Mr. Wells- I made it through the chill, now I'm keeping my balance and surfing this heat wave. I've always loved the weather in South Florida; that was before I needed to wrangle with it. I've been dodging the sun all day, but it's dancing. It's not a quick step, it's more like a slow romantic and sweetly fluid motion. This is my second summer out here. This summer is hotter, and I'm thinking of cutting the beard I've been growing. All of this is an unlikely position for someone with security holdings. It's easy to rush out and start trying to fix things, but sometimes fixing things is about understanding what's going on. When my buildings caught fire, I thought I'd bounce back, but here I am watching the ducks swim in a temporary pond. It's the left overs from last night's cool down showers. I've been thinking a lot about temporary ponds. I'm wondering if it's apparent to the ducks, and if it is, why didn't they reject it. Instead they carry on with so much gratitude. That's the way I try to live while I'm out here. It's the temporary pond I've chosen, and something says it's the best way to preserve what hasn't been destroyed. The notes are really my only confirmation that this is all no happenstance, except for my natural belief that nothing in life is happenstance. I try to remember this every time there's a relapse. There aren't that many, but the ones I've seen are really heart breaking. It's the moment you see that face that's been missing for a season, and then shows up all filled out; not boney and hollowed. It's tough to see the rehabilitation shrink back to nothing, so I try to remember it all serves a higher purpose. That's as long as you're eyes are projected upward, otherwise there's no getting up from a shirt covered with vomit, a pants drenched in urine, and the stares that come when you have to stretch your hands out to those who have never loss their step. I'm also trying to remember the dream I had overnight. It's the first I've had since I been out here. I was walking and holding the hand of a woman. I couldn't see her. I could only hear her voice. It sounded like we were married from the way she spoke. The setting was a setting from childhood. We walked, and she talked until I was sitting on a bench alone. The sun was setting, and my friend showed up with the paper. We divided it as always, and then I woke up. I've got her voice registered, but her words are drowned out. I'm thinking maybe it's just a temporary pond. Perhaps I should just bathe in it for the day, and then let it dry up. I don't know. I'll see.
Chapter 17- Breathing On Purpose
Morgan- I'm no nobleman but what if being noble isn't a lifetime affair, but rather moments where we are noble. I've made a mess of my life, and many others. I belong here. That's no debate. I'm regretful, but I have to keep it down under my skin or I die. The question has certainly been asked, "Why aren't you dead?" No matter how bad you've been, nothing really prepares you for such a question. When I saw the book and the publisher, I immediately knew the answer. I never thought she could come out of her shell that way, but she had, and she was still coming. I know because I'm following her stuff now. I've written four letters already. She hasn't responded, but her husband has come to see me. I know it's him, and I'm fine with that. After all I didn't respond to his letter. If it's his ego that brought him here, I hope it's strong and not just puffed up. Besides, I'm still her father, and he never got my permission.
It's a busy day for visits. No one expected I'd get one. I'm looking at all the excitement, but all I have to offer is curiosity. I sit behind the glass where I'm directed, and I can see that he's both puffed up and strong. I don't think he's blinked since I sat down, and neither one of us reaches for the phone. A few more moments go by, and he walks away.
"Punk!" I yelled. I knew he couldn't hear me; I was sure of it, but he turned around and sat back down. This time he decisively picked up the phone. I did too.
"Why didn't you return the letter?"
"It wasn't addressed to you."
"I'm her husband, and you're her abuser. Don't you think she deserves to be protected?"
"That's precisely why I sent the letter."
"Then tell me what I need to know."
"Does she know you're here?"
"What do you care."
"I care." I'd said the words I had hoped all of my words and letters had conveyed to my daughter.
"About what exactly?" The question carried a spark with it that tried to pull me into a river of thinking. I refused the pull.
"Look, there's a guy that works at the Gazette. His name is Porter. Tell him you need the log on The Simpletons. If he asks, tell him I sent you. Keep this quiet, and whatever you do, don't play hard ball with them. And don't write me anymore letters. It's not safe."
"Got it. And likewise with the letters. You've done enough, just let her live."
"Nothing I can do to harm her from here. Follow the leads." There was no thank you, no good-bye, and still no permissions, but I could see that she was in good hands; hands I decided I could respect. I took the walk back to my block, and I finally understood all the excitement about the visits. There's something that lingers; a feeling that you matter. And it helps to keep the grime down under the skin.
Erased, a novel
Copyright 2018 by Natisha Renee Williams, All Rights Reserved
Grace Call Communications, LLC Copyright 2018
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