COURIER IN THE BIRD MASK

TRIGGER WARNINGS child death, suicide, abuse, plague, sickness, breakdowns, first person, spouse death, starvation

Day Ten

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore- I can’t do this- I can’t keep watching people die, helplessly begging me to help. I’m useless, as I transcribe their final words. I can’t get attached to people anymore, everyone I talk to will die. It’s sad, I’m the world’s most pathetic grim reaper. Messenger of death, but not in a lyrical epic sort of way,  but in a pathetic, falling apart, depressed way. Sometimes, I wonder why I chose to be an author. It was my literacy that doomed me to writing these letters. If I never turned to writing- I can’t imagine how much they feel, how terrible the thoughts of existing haunt them every single day. How much pain they’re in, both physically and mentally. Losing your family, losing your loved one- HOW DO THEY WANT ME TO EXPRESS THESE FEELINGS THAT REAL LIFE PEOPLE HAVE GONE THROUGH?!

I can only write so much, and none of it will ever ever hold a candle to the emotion that people go through every day of this damned plague. My words will never be enough for them, will it?! I can’t do this, take me back to the ground, let me rest in death. Why do I get to live?! Why do I get to keep going, while people a thousand times more deserving get to be alive? When the sick see me, they know. I’m still in the birdcage, but I am the canary in the coal mine.

There’s something burning in me, something that wants to put these abstract feelings- like the stars not looking quite right and the world being an uncanny painting of what used to be… and I can never do it accurately no matter how many metaphors I make. 

Closer and closer the plague kills everyone around me but me.

Darkness crawls over my skin. When I made my bed, that of being an author, did I invite the demons in it. The moon shone bright tonight as there were no streetlights to dampen the light…

I’m the suicidal canary in the coalmine.

-

Alexander.

My father, I must sorrowfully admit… the fact I have to face you're my father, no matter what I want to believe or think. No matter how I wish you weren't my father, you are. I hate that. I hate that you are connected to me inexplicably through blood and blood alone.  No matter how much I wish that you would take your final breath and never speak to me again, I also can't bear you dying without me saying goodbye. You- you ruined me, You destroyed me and I need you to know, call it petty, call it revenge but I feel so much towards our history together. For me, it’s more than I can seem to handle. It’s the pain in my mind late at night, me laying in bed, regretting my birth because you destroyed and ruined my will to live.

I remember those deep nights. I remember you drunk on twyrine and laughing with whatever woman you picked up on the street while you hurt me and mama senseless. I thought about this so much.. all my memories and I feel like I waited too long. Before I knew it was the end for you, I thought I had time to tell you what I've always felt. And here you were on your deathbed and I can’t even hear you- I need to tell you through this faceless beaked monster in front of me.

Here's the truth— you lied. You said you would change and you'd love me— yet every time you said it, you didn’t. I hate you. I always will and yet I still want your validation. I still crave you telling me you’re proud of me, I want you to say that I’m enough. But I know it doesn’t matter because no matter what you say, it will mean nothing to me in the long run.

When you're dying, you'll be taking a part of my heart with you to the underworld, a part of me will die. I think it's the part that's scared of living, it's the part that's scared of you. Now that you're going to be gone, I think I can start to live again. You're taking a piece of my heart and I know you don't care.

And yet I'll still miss you. I'll miss the part of me that's scared to live because oh god the feeling is comforting, being miserable is so comfortable and I hate it. And I want things to change but the idea of changing sounds scary. I don't want to change, I want this illusion of safety, this normality. I hate you so much, and yet I can't bear to see you go.

I’m so happy you’re dying.

—Nadiya.