by Harvey, Red
Instead, I started writing stories that same day True began speaking again. My stories can take us miles away from this life, and bring us bits of joy and reflection. What else is there to a story?
I came back to write in this journal for the last time because…I keep thinking about a conversation Louise and I had years ago, while still in the basement. We had been staring up at the stars, (through the dirty film of the window), when she told me about a yellow star she’d seen as a child. How that star had made her sad. All the other stars were white or blue, except for this one dingy bulb in the sky.
It was supposed to be a beautiful, breathtaking sight, but the star had mutated into something ugly. The tragedy of it was that she found out later that the yellow tinge meant it was a dying star; it hadn’t meant to be ugly, it just was.
Is that what this world is? An ugly, dying thing? If so, what do we do? Do we perish along with it?
That’s one way, I suppose. Then there’s The Man’s way of maniacal dominance mixed with violence, or Gloria’s route to ultimate survival. Here, in this house, we may have found our own way.
Louise told us she’s pregnant. At first, I was appalled. Bring a new life into this filth? Mere stupidity, I thought. A few days later, I started to look at True differently. I’ve been imagining her pregnant with my baby. The thought has felt so real and profound to me that I want it to be true. I want to be a creator of something outside myself, something better than myself.
Can I raise a child to be a good person? Can I protect my child in a world populated by monsters, both of the human and demonic variety? I don’t know, but I think it’s worth a try. I hope True feels the same, and then we can try together.
