See, this one time, there was this really bad thing that happened. I may have mentioned it from time to time. This bad thing happened, and I died.
It was not murder. It wasn't even manslaughter, though a good attorney might have been able to wrestle a plea bargain from a gullible defendant.
Doesn't matter though. The past has, as they say, passed.
Then, several months later, another really bad thing happened, and I died again. Except that time, the really bad thing didn't just happen. Nope, that time, it was done to me.
That time, I was murdered.
There's really no other way to say it. No acceptable excuse, though a few excuses have auditioned for me. And been rejected outright.
It was done, to me, on purpose. It was premeditated murder. Murder most foul, as I read somewhere in some book I think.
But again, it doesn't matter. The past has passed.
Anyway, what I realized this morning, before it turned into a good day, was that I knew what I was more afraid of than anything else.
It's not the first thing happening again. It's not even the second thing happening again.
It's both things, at the same time.
A part of me expects both these things to happen at any time. Any second now, I expect to check my pulse and discover that I'm dead again. And bullshit like Saturday night only fuels that fear.
I've said it a million times, though perhaps not so wordily; it takes the tiniest of efforts to ease my fears, but it also takes the slightest disregard to create them and feed them and raise them until they're big enough and strong enough to consume me.
Just a little effort. Just a smidgen of empathy, leading to a hint of courtesy. I don't think that's too much.
I know that this is all clear as mud. Can't be helped, I'm afraid.