Twelve twenty-four twenty-four. What a sharp, square date. We should have gotten married on this date. What a lovely, square anniversary that would’ve been.

Of course it would be better if it was 4/24/24, now I’m thinking about it, Better yet, 4/24/20. None of these would’ve really been possible though, as I would’ve bitten his fucking dick off if we’d waited even another minute.

Now we’ve done it, though, and it was perfect, and I want to have another, even more perfect one every year. I could write vows that grow and wear a dress that gets both better and cheaper each time. We wouldn’t change the bagel spread as the main meal; that was genius. Maybe on the tenth anniversary we’d go hard, if we were doing well financially and neither us nor the world had ended yet.

Oh but I do love a wedding without fuss. I love him, too. I really fucking do, jeez. Unsure whether that’s wise, but to quote my dying mother, here we are.

I got a wireless keyboard so I don’t have to lug my computer with me and can still actually write. I’ve been having a lot of trouble doing that, and it’s not good for me to not, but that’s also been where we are. My brain’s gotten so congested it’s spread to my heart and made it just a little toxic, so today I woke up at 2am and wrote 2,000 words of my next penname’s debut novel and then signed up to not sleep anymore, to instead write this rambling, lovely little post. I haven’t said much to you in so long, have I? Hello, dear.

Baby boy is asleep in his swing beside me. I love him so much it makes me want to Do Something About All This. I love my kids so much I’m scared, and only someone with kids really Gets that, because even putting into words why I’m scared is downright terrifying, and I am angry, I am angry, I am so very pissed that their future wasn’t loved and valued enough to be protected the way I wish I could.

I’ve been researching cults for my new thing. To those that have read my work: y’all know I love a cult.

It’s been pretty cool, pretty chill, because of course I’m only hearing from survivors. Recently though a favorite specialist of mine was on a show discussing family annihilators and I made the mistake of a morbid click while in research mode. The specialist is this shrewd neuro-spicy woman made of hard angles and determination. The host was her opposite on all fronts, including how she chose to discuss it.

“He killed the pregnant wife first, he did, and then he put her body on the floor of the backseat and put the two girls in with her, sitting right above her. He drove them to an old mill and strangled the three year old first. We know that the six year old was crying, watching this happen, and she asked him, “are you going to do to me what you did to her?”

He said yes. She said, “Daddy, no…” and he killed her anyway.

I had x’d out, shut my computer, held my baby and breathed, shaking. How dare she tell me that.

The fact that I was researching for a book I think is what truly fucked me. My head was geared already towards figuring people out, and I hit that man killing his family and the whole thing jolted, repeated, jolted, repeated. It couldn’t see how that could’ve happened. Never mind the mass suicides, the thousands of children that have been handed poison because a charismatic man told their parents to feed it to them. Something about this one baby girl, barely older than my baby girl. She is the worst tragedy of this minute of mine, and she is owed more grief than anyone living will ever be able to give her. That baby, that poor baby, that sweet fucking kid who was owed a life.

I hate people. I love people. We are all hurting so very much, and it enrages me beyond measure that in several ways, we don’t have to. But we create a world where we must,. Or more accurately, more often, where others must. We feed our futures on the pain of others’ presents, and that fucks us all over in an endless circle, a cycle of violence that spreads species-wide.

I held baby boy after that for a long time, long after he’d fallen asleep. I thought about how damaged I was when my daughter was this age, how I couldn’t wait to put her down, how I’d hoped she’d stay asleep, and I grieved all the shit she was owed too that I hadn’t been clear enough in myself to give to anyone. That little girl begging–daddy, no. She hadn’t run. She hadn’t tried to escape. Where would she have gone? She was six, and her mom was dead at her feet, and her dad had just killed her sister. Her world must’ve been over, then.

Maybe that was what he was thinking, too. Maybe he had started and regretted, and then couldn’t stop because how horrible would that have been, too? If he had stopped, and left her with this world he’d made for her.

I let out a shuddering breath and tried not to start crying again. Looked down at baby boy, and he was already awake, ,quiet, looking up at me, and smiling so hugely I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed.

Just looking. Looking, and smiling, and not making a peep. Just happy, to have found himself still in my arms when he woke up.

I laughed, startled. Pushed my face in close, and the world is made of fear, and his face smells good, and I know some folk hope their kids will change the world for the better but I don’t, I really don’t. I hope against hope they’ll just hide somewhere beautiful, and be happy, and let the rest of this species suffer as much as it wants, but they’ll have a good secret life in a beautiful little world they make for themselves, and they won’t worry, and they won’t be afraid, and they’ll die before any horror can catch up to them.

Maybe I’ll get it, with him. It’s a desperate, sad hope. Big girl already has too big a heart to hide. I knew when she cried at the end of an episode of Bluey she wouldn’t be ok not trying to make things better, and it made me angry. Why can’t you be selfish, baby girl? Why can’t you just live, and be happy, and know it shouldn’t be your responsibility to fix what we all broke?

I don’t care if the country goes to Hell–let it, we already made it for ourselves, anyway. I don’t care if the world fucking ends. Give my babies a good life. Let them never be that afraid, ever. Let them be happy, often. More than any of that–give them comfort.

Comfort. Trust and love that is not broken. A place to rest and food to eat and no fear of losing those things. I want them to be obnoxiously comfortable. I want others to hear about how good they have it and hate them, but never reach even their field of vision.

Let the rest of the world burn, baby girl. Save yourself.

She won’t, though. She can’t.

I heard her then, a big sigh as she woke up in her room at the top of the stairs. I shifted on the couch, making room for her to cuddle up with us, and shut my eyes. Waited for her little voice.

“Mom? Can I come down?”

“Yup! Good morning baby, did you have good sleeps? Did you have good dreams?”

“Yes,” she always sighs out, stepping carefully down the stairs. She curls up into my side, sniffing and wiping her nose on my shirt.

I brush her hair back with careful fingers, gently working to do a preliminary de-tangle so it won’t freak her out so much when I brush it, later. I can feel her warm breath on my ribs. So weird–she used to be inside there, didn’t she?

What did you dream about?