A Letter to Resuscitation


 Dear Resuscitation,


 Please forgive me for not writing sooner, when I claimed I would. I was obliged to spend a little while recovering.


 A few days ago, I believe, though it is difficult to remember, I made a grave miscalculation. I do not understand what unconscious force compelled me to do it, but I know it was strong. Paired with my irrepressible impulsivity, it was irresistible.


 Ollie and I agreed that alcohol should be forbidden here. We shook hands and he thought of the glass under his bed and I of mine and nothing else was said of it.


 However, one evening Ollie became an unwitting and, most certainly, undeserving Valkyrie; the decider of my fate.


 Throughout the night the alcohol forced apart my body until it could no longer reconnect. My head floated away from torso, as did my limbs.

 I pictured Ollie coming up the stairs, wondering where I was. He’d see me and think “She is so vulnerable, but so genuine.” He’d pat my back and help me into bed and we’d laugh about it in the morning.


 Or perhaps he would let me die, waltz me to merciful Valhalla by abandoning me. He might frown so deeply rivers would run between his brows and wash over me.


 But all my efforts resulted in was my own incapacitation.

 I misjudged my strategic fall. No one witnessed my performance.

 Ollie did not come to my aid. I forgot that things would continue without his intervention.

 I remained a fractured doll. My dismembered head was too heavy to lift.

 I was forced to pick up my own scattered fingers and toes from the cracks between the floorboards.


 When I awoke the next afternoon Ollie was not in the house. During the night the battle had ended and my Valkyrie had flown away.


 My cracked skull did not ache as much as the disappointment that my spectacle had gone unnoticed. Next time I must ensure my actors answer their cues, that I might receive the applause and heckles I need to stay afloat.



 Your suffocating Primadonna,


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