Of late I have found myself in a new twilight. Last year during this time of Lent I had felt the brutal transformation from darkness to light.
I believed that San’s and my bond was true, and that if he had the proper tools he would fight, in a sense, for me. For his children. For our love, our promises, and our journey together.
It is strange, to think back the year. For return he did, but only to leave the same, promising his love in the next lifetime. After betraying it in this one.
The weight of the lies are large. San must have known Sassy considered herself abused. He was either content to allow her to be, or content to lie to me that he intended to stay. He must have known Lohr was lying to the warrior queen about his love and loyalty. Indeed he lied about his own. He now thinks it is all right to prevent free communication between these other children and myself. (They are always welcome, of course, and we have never called them stalkers; they may read or not, and write or not, as they wish. But of course the reverse is not the case.)
That is two men now, who have desired my promises and my loyalty, my sight and my song, and all that is most precious to me, only to exchange it for promises of rewards in the afterlife. The reward is more of the same, it seems.
I am deeply tired of love and indeed of life itself.
San wished from time to time that I would share his perspective about my first lover: that he was abusive and that he told me untruths about the supernatural. But it is San himself who demonstrated with clarity what it means, to treat me as less than a person. He told me from time to time that these parents should have stood against my lover for me, but he would stand neither with me nor his children here.
And I am the fool who loves them both. And that is the trouble. It does not come from without, but from within. I laugh at myself. For I write to Mikael, a little, and he writes me back that he does not ask me to give up the darkness but also not to give up the light. In truth he asks me not to give up. But for what? For him? For days I feel loved and then I realize my heart is the very last thing I should trust.
Sometimes I think in the end all an old whore such as myself may do is find a gutter in which to die quietly after she is all used up. Perhaps Robert Pickton had the right of it. Sometimes I dream of his farm as though it were home. Not so different from my earliest days.
I know from experience it is likely Sassy will mock this as playing the victim, if she reads it. I have pondered this since I read it. Once she encouraged me to understand I was victimized, but then she called it a game. I am too tired to untangle it. Any of it. I like the simple blade better.