I'm nervous out of my mind, out of my terrible mind, out of my amnesic mind that has failed me more times than it has helped me, as not even numbing the pain of what I did is enough, because there are still people who were more devastated by the tragedy than I was, and I shouldn't be so selfish to assume that my own life's destruction was most catastrophic for me, for I wouldn't be there to witness it before I sank six feet under the dirt with no recollection of how I sank.

And that's very much like my current situation, although my heart is still beating, and my pulse is still fluttering like a moth weaving circles through my blood, and my muscles are still retrieving strength from their stock so that I may move, but beside of that, I have no idea who I was before I attempted to kill myself, no idea who I am even now, because I have retained no foundation upon which to build myself up again, so I lie here in the rubble and the ash and the shards of broken glass from the ocular window to my soul whose blue jay tint is now fluctuating out of ambivalence, but now it hoists a flashing color stained by my impenetrable terror at what's transpiring this very instant.

I'm accompanying Brendon to his home to meet the sister who has ostensibly been horrifically shaken up by my suicide attempt, and she will no doubt be enraged by what I've done to both her and her brother, accepting no apologies no matter how sincere and frightful they are. I desperately ache to tell Kara that I am sorry, from the bottom of my perpetually kicking heart that's kicking faster now,I suppose these are just preconceived notions and shouldn't be trusted, but when has my mind ever trusted rationality anyway?

Nothing I have done to this remote family of two is justifiable by whatever wild apology I have mustered inside of my head beforehand so that I'll be prepared when I obviously break down at the confrontation of this girl whom I ruined with my absence, but I shouldn't be thinking about myself in these circumstances, because she's the one who was sobbing for at least a week after I tried to kill myself.

I have enacted many unintelligent decisions, most of which I deeply regret at night when the memories of childhood occasionally flood back to me and ignite a party of cringing, and then I begin to think how much they impacted those around me, how much my actions may seem like they follow after a thought but really are spurred by my insufferable impulsiveness.

For example, when one should reverse a tape, what they would see first is the effects, such as the echo and then the noise produced by their actions that proceed afterwards. The last thing they would see is a silent function performed only inside of their mind. This just proves that a human's decision making skills have always been last of their priorities, and it is only when your life is in reverse, when you are falling apart in disarray, that one realizes this.

I am beginning to understand this concept, however abstruse it is, but life of all things is abstruse, so I should place myself in the duty to sort through its complexities while I'm conversing with Brendon's litter sister who will surely tear me to shreds, because I recognize that I messed up, and I messed up real badly, so I guess it's only fair that she should win the opportunity to rip me apart like a lion trained on savagery, albeit nothing can compare to the horrors I forced upon the only people who cared for me in this world. That's unforgivable, but I'll labor to make amends, because that's the kind of weak person I am.

And it's not as if I'm endeavoring to fix any of my weak qualities, only improve things in my life and improve things in others' lives as an afterthought if I succeed at the first, when really it should be the other way around, because I'm irreversibly doomed to selfishness and phobia and everything that nobody would ever want, but others still retain a hope that I can work with.

It's not my job to help people through their insecurities, but I feel that they deserve to be aided, and I deserve to be strained while doing that for them after all of the other things I've done, so I just need to step up, rid myself of paranoia, and only after those prerequisites are completed thoroughly, then I can approach Kara with the goal of reconciliation fresh in my mind, 'cause nothing else is.

As we scale the stairs to Brendon's house that he shares with his sister and in which he acts like a parental guardian, he doesn't seem to notice my anxiety all that deftly. He doesn't notice that I am scalding from the hellfire I am placing myself into intentionally when I think it's just an accident in which my mind has tumbled, and it's not like I can expect him to cure anxiety when that's something that can only be mitigated with the slight chance of a fiery relapse, but I had at least trusted him to understand how it is. Maybe he's just anxious about me being anxious, and he simply doesn't want to accost me because he's scared. Whatever. I can figure it out on my own. He did it when I was gone. It should be a piece of cake.

Roping a hasty glance and directing it towards me before unlatching the door from its hinges, Brendon steps inside of his orchid-scented house, dragging me with him without worrying if I'm petrified of what lies behind the threshold.

Brendon's sister is nothing intimidating from what I can see by the doorway, only curled up on the couch with a book, a blanket shrouding her minuscule figure as she's helplessly engrossed in the enchanting words upon the pages as dry as my store of prior memories, and this only partially soothes my throbbing, irrational fear of this young woman.

Kara looks up from her book with a classic science fiction cover jacket, and what she predicted was the arrival of her brother just like any other day, but what she imbibes is the person she hasn't seen in over a month, the person who shattered her life with the shock of it all to increase the flame, the person she's missed ever since then and hasn't stopped missing, utilizing poetry to assist her grief towards remission.

At first, she doesn't believe that I'm real, that I'm here, her chocolate eyes sounding a silent alarm, but after a few seconds, she rises from the couch and dashes towards me, relieved that I've returned for her.

"Dallon!" she exclaims, arms laced around me like a corset, and that binding is not at all exaggerated, because she's elated at my presence in her home that was so empty of peppermint for the past four weeks, and I can't condemn her for that, as she was utterly broken by my murder attempt.

I always thought there was something I could do for the people around me, the people who were generous to stay even when I wouldn't, but now I know the truth: you can't fix broken things. Believe me — I've tried. But the only reason we attempt to restore them, even through all of their insecurities and all of their faults and all of their untrusting eyes etched like daggers, is because we still have faith in their future, and I just think that's neat. That's what I'm implementing in the existences of Kara and Brendon, just a faith in their future and nothing more because I can't do anything more, so I pray that it will be fruitful.

"Hey, Kara!" I reply, though nothing correlated to her personality and her relationship to me stirs in my mind.

Brendon, twisting his hands together like a damp towel, nervously reminds his sister, "Kara, he doesn't remember anything, which means he doesn't remember you, either."

Only the humblest craters of damage strikes her face before fleeing to make way for a pragmatic disposition as a coping mechanism, although she's still on my trail for answers. "Dissociative amnesia? Head trauma?"

How has she determined this so expeditiously? For me, this sort of discovery required days of researching and figuring out why I was robbed of my core memories, though it may have been something I needed at the time, so she must be the queen of the school if only they ruled by level of intellect.

Kara is rapidly alternating the subject, but her roots are still tucked in melancholy. "Remember when you promised me you would take us to France one day? If you don't, well you left before that could occur, and therefore that vow was terminated, so are you willing to uphold the promise finally?"

That seems like something I would do, seeing as I love France and most aspects of its culture, and I would be honored to fly to Bordeaux with my best friends from before the incident perspired chaos upon me and my close ones, but the trick is that I don't know anything about her.

However, if Brendon trusts her, then I should trust her as well, so I'm agreeing with only a smidge of doubt, because I've already screwed everything up, and I don't need anything else on the record suiting my eventual conviction. In addition, this young woman emanates the impression that she's good company, and her brother will be there with her in case she begins to hate me for either what I did a month ago or who I've become afterwards, so this should be fully functional.

"I'll call my parents to see if you two can stay with me at the house in Bordeaux, if you want. Armistice Day is advancing, and we usually hold a celebration for that, so it's a perfect time to visit."

The lamp in Kara's irises blossoms into new life, irrevocably pleased. "That would be fantastic! I can't tell you how much this means to me."

I seek forgiveness, and on the coast of Bordeaux, France is where it lies. For now, at least, I have ambition.

~~~~~

A/N: this chapter is...,,,,too much

actually it's too little like why am I like this, always confining myself to 1500 words wtf I just want it to be over because I hate writing

aesthetic: the philosophy of metaphysics

~Dakototalitarian-societies-are-not-healthy-for-a-metaphysicist