Page 25 of Impossible

It has no Future—but itself—

Its Infinite Contain

Its Past—enlightened to perceive

New Periods—of Pain.

Risk’s handwriting is carved into the paper, punching holes through in places. There are grey smudges on either side where his thumbs rested. I rest my own over them, reading the poem again. Tears prick my eyes—the absence of the bond never feels quite as painful as when Risk is forced to communicate without it. His handwriting is illegible to most people, wobbly like a second grader’s. But he knows how my mind works, how I feel seen. And he sees me.

Emily Dickinson.

His choice of poet is more than just the words on the paper—back at the Complex, before we were bonded, before we were even friends, I used to tutor him in English. Dickinson was one of the first poets we studied together. He was so proud when he did his own research and found out that she was likely queer. From that point on, no matter the poem or poet we were studying, he would find some way to read into it as gay. The memory feels hollow now, like it keeps needing to stop and buffer in my mind, refusing to fully load. It used to make me laugh.

I fold the paper neatly and tuck it under my mattress next to the others—there are dozens now, little scraps of poetry he leaves me when I’m asleep or too out of it to realize he’s come into the room. Each one is a dagger of kindness and shame.

No thoughts come. Pressure and lack. The black tar is still sticky-slick inside of me, the doomed feeling pulsing behind my eyes. Everything is background noise. I’m background noise. I can pretend my pack is out there, doing better things. I don’t have the bond to tell me otherwise. The only thing that disrupts my game of pretend is the hot shame when any of them comes in and tries to pull me from my perpetual pity party.

A knock on the door. Speak of the devil.

It opens without my permission, and the smell of evergreen pierces my musty rain.

“I come bearing breakfast.” Hollis has a plate in his hand. The smell of eggs turns my stomach.

His eyes fall on the plate of dinner he brought last night, untouched on my bedside table. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just swaps the plates, putting the revolting smelling eggs down.

“Please take those away.” I cover my nose. “They smell awful.”

“Is there something else you’ll eat?”

“No.”

“Joshua…”

“Please don’t.”

“They came by my desk yesterday again about you.” He ignores the pile of laundry on the chair across from my bed and sits.

I shake my head—I can’t deal with this right now.

“You’re the only reason the case file is still open, Joshua. As soon as you talk to them, we can start putting it behind us.”

“They already know what happened.”

“Not your side.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“You’re going to start getting penalized after ten days missed. That’s Tuesday, next week.”

“Oh no,” I mock.

Hollis sighs. “You can’t keep going like this, Joshua. Let us bring Dr. Gray here. He can give you something to help.”

“With what?” I hate how caustic my voice is. “The fact that I’m a failure?”

“Don’t say that.”

“Would you just leave me alone?”

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