Better Treatment for Billypunk Story

This was bad. Really bad. Like, holy-fucking-shit-you-need-to-run bad. And yet, she simply stood, frozen in horror at what had been her boyfriend of approximately forever, head just kind of popped; blood and chucks of fatty meat were strewn about the apartment, along with scattered bits of durstic and microcircuitry. Little fiberoptic wires, ripped at the ends, stuck out of what seemed to be his neck, though it was pretty hard to discern his exact anatomy in this condition.

Cruise didn't need to ask why, nor how, or even who (hacking, big fucking gun, and an Imperatel hitman, respectively). The only thing she needed to do was run, and finally her legs obeyed, carrying her down the hallway towards the stairwell. Yes, they still have stairs in the future; they didn't stop being cheaper than elevation systems. Anyway, she was fully intending to use said stairs, but she ran into a bit of a problem in the form of an Imperatel clean-up squad. Clearly, this was not going to be Cruise's day.

With the stairs down out of the question, and the stairs up just being stupid, she took the only sensible route and smashed through the wall. I know how that sounds; how can she have the plants to smash through a wall, but not fight some hired goons? Well, smartass, the Bleaker Cities are generally constructed from shitty scrap parts by the lowest bidder to fulfill Antares' promise of 'a roof for every head,' a key point in their bullshit propaganda that more or less permeates the core of the city. We may or may not get to that part. Also, the Imperatel goons have way, way better plants. Suffice to say Cruise is not a high enough level to deal with them. Anyway, now you know why she jumped through the wall, so if we could get to the part where you stop asking stupid questions, that would be great.

Bits of scrap metal and, like, super shitty carbon framing flew out into the night, the dim, depressing Bleaker lights giving away to the neon ocean that was Antares' outer city, a holy promise of booze, sex, stims, and a bunch of other Cyberpunk cliches that Cruise didn't have time to think about. She landed with a roll and a grunt on the roof of the shorter Bleakers, breaking immediately into a sprint. Her work as a Runner meant she was used to roof travel, and her horror faded a bit into relief; the clean-up squad would be more worried about the apartment, and they were likely too heavy to follow her anyway.

Of course, that relief was quickly squashed by the sight of an Imperatel hoverjet rising to her level, spotlight shining and spinny guns spinning. Cruise said something along the lines of 'fuck' or 'shit' or 'if my heart were a cannon.' She was going too fast to stop, the ledge being just a stride away. Once again, she was left with only the one real option, so she lept from the ledge onto the jet, her traction-enhanced Scuds letting her sprint across the craft and leap to the next rooftop (Remind me to tell you about the whole AST thing later; it'll explain her quick decision making, as well as a few other things).

Right. So we did the apartment, the roof, and the jet. Now the chase was on, and Cruise went full Runner. She zigged and zagged with impressive agility, which is handy when a hoverjet is shooting spinny guns at you. Chunks of rounded metal smashed into the roofs as she ran along, and she briefly felt sorry for anyone who had a top-story Bleaker apartment. Getting tired of all the railgun rounds, she shorted her next jump, falling below the skyline. She made contact with the wall of the next building, her Scuds and electromag implants making her stick, sliding briskly down the side of the building towards the busy street.

She swore again, when the spotlight of the hoverjet arced over the previous rooftop, the craft zeroing in on her. The hydraulic reinforcements in her legs had her off the wall just in time for it to basically explode into little bits of futuristic debris, and she fell another twenty feet or so before she was able to stick to the other wall. She wasn't able to stay long, the automated murder machine having her well in her sights. She leaped again, despite knowing full well there wasn't enough height left to make it across. At this point she was just hoping the damage wouldn't be too bad.

Chrysander makes a reliable grid-car, affordable and sturdy, which were the traits most important for the Outer City. Never knew when a gunfight would break out, or a building might explode, or, say, an Enhanced Runner girl fell onto your roof. Cruise grunted heavily, the wind knocked out of her as she landed on the roof of an R5, and promptly bounced off. The good news was that she was alive. The bad news was that the HJ's spinnies had her dead to rights.

The best news, however, was that the denizens of the Outer City fuckin' hated those damned things, and as soon as they realized what was happening, which was fairly quick, no fewer than a dozen Bouncers, Scuzzies, and Runners had their pieces pulled, sending varying chunks of metal with all sorts of fun properties (lightning!) into the craft, basically shredding it before it could get a shot off. Cruise gasped heavily, both because she was finally able to breathe, and because she couldn't believe that she was still kickin'. She'd always assumed the day Jenk got blanked would be the day she was done as well. Of course, the day wasn't done just yet.

She rose to her feet perhaps surprisingly quick for someone who'd just fallen onto a car (Seriously, if you make it to the future, look into those enhancements. They're pretty badass like that). While those around her had been quick to blow the shit out of the jet, they weren't overly interested in giving her much sympathy. She couldn't blame them much; most people simply didn't have time to give a shit. She would have done the same in their place (The future's kind of sad like that. I'm sure the present is fine, though.)

After making sure her leg bits were still working, she jogged along the street. The destruction of the HJ only meant that two more were on their way, after all, so she only had a small window in which to get out of sight. In an instant, she figured out where she was (Mapping programs come standard on all MarkNetTM BrainComp(R) implants; buy yours today!), and jogged south along the gridway, pulling up her DuraWeave hoodie, for all the good it would do against spinny guns. The hoodie had been a gift from Jenk. She tried desperately not to think about that.

Machina's was the destination, about half a click away. She picked up her pace when she could, but open spaces were hard to find on gridways. She guessed it would take about six minutes for the jets to find their fallen buddy, which meant she about two to get to the Runner Den. It vaguely occurred to her that maybe leading Imperatel right to her supposed-to-be-hidden-employer was a bad idea, but you know how it is when you're panicked. That kind of forethought is usually the first thing to go. She made it in a minute twenty-seven, clearing the stairwell into the alley and punching the appropriate brick combination to open the composter decoy.

Coming into the Den always made her feel safe, even if only for a little while. She kept her head down as she made her way through the bar, and then the playroom, occasionally returning a nod or waving at a 'Yo Cruise!' (Yes, they still have friends in the future. Just not as many.). Machina's office was behind an old Jackson blast door, purely for cosmetic purposes. The Jackson series had long been obsolete, and it had this really ugly, bulky aesthetic that didn't mesh at all with the world around it. 'Old school,' Machina liked to call it. Cruise felt like it was old for a reason.

It took a frustrating full second for the door to slide open, which didn't usually annoy Cruise so much, but, shit, things were goin' down. She needed Machina's help, and she needed it without waiting for a shitty old door to open. Anyway, she stepped in quickly.

"Cruise! I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow," greeted Machina, an older woman who still had visible chrome and shit. More Old School stuff. Cruise had always felt that it was a miracle she hadn't died of infection or rejection by now. Of course, she also had a suspicion that Machina was immortal, so she never said anything about it.

"Shit happened," Cruise muttered quickly.

"Which kind of shit?"

"The Imperatel-exploded-Jenk's-head kind."

Machina simply stared, her visage slipping into one of deep sympathy that always unnerved Cruise. It was like the woman was in her head, which she probably was; despite her preference for Chrome, she was an expert on all the modern biotech and hybrids, and had in fact been the one to install her latest BrainComp(R) (MarkNetTM has stopped supporting the 2.0 models, which was bullshit, as they'd yet to make an equally reliable implant since that one.), so she had in fact literally been inside Cruise's head.

"I'm so sorry," Machina offered, bringing the first tears of grief to Cruise's eyes, which she wiped quickly on the sleeve of her hoodie.

"I need to disappear," she replied. Machina nodded, and began rummaging through her desk instantly, pulling out a bunch of old shit; a map, a butterfly knife, a stack of coins (fuckin' seriously?), and an old mechanical P12. Cruise froze a bit as she realized what they all had in common.

"You're taking me offline?!" she asked, more than a little trepidation in her voice.

"You need to disappear," Machina stated simply. "They'll track you through your BrainComp(R), so it needs to be shut off."

This was easier said than done, of course. Not quite believing any of this was actually happening (it wouldn't be the first time Jenk had slipped an AR module into her jack [wink]), Cruise obediently sat in a chair while Machina retrieved another device, a simple directed EMP emitter with a drill attachment, as the BrainComp(R)'s casing had to be breached first.

"Um, Boss?" called a disembodied voice.

"I'm busy Rollo," Machina called, putting the device in place.

"Yeah, uh... we got an Imperatel bus rolling up on us," informed Rollo. Both Machina and Cruise froze.

"Fuck," muttered Cruise.

"Well... yeah, fuck," said Machina. Cruise was somewhat surprised that Machina hadn't flipped her shit at her stupidity in leading Imperatel there.

"Tell everyone to bug out," the Chromed woman instructed.

"Got it," replied Rollo. Cruise didn't have time to add anything as the drill began its work, tearing through her synflesh and starting to grind against the durstic casing to the BrainComp(R). It only took a few seconds, and suddenly Cruise's world turned black. Metaphorically, anyway. She was still conscious, but her connection to the network was gone, which was a fuckin' trip. She suddenly didn't know the layout of the building, what street she was one, or whether there was a sale on Breaker Chips (she also couldn't find out the score of the Castle game, but that was neigher here nor there). It was like her connection to the whole world was gone, and there was nothing to stop the sudden wave of loneliness she felt.

While Cruise cried softly and held a bit of gauze against her synflesh, Machina was moving, grabbing an old duffel bag from a nearby locker (Like, a present-day locker, only in the future, which was weird) and shoving the items she'd previously retrieved into it, as well as a couple extra clips for the 12mm. She stood before Cruise, who looked up at her, suddenly a mess. Machina only smiled at her, holding out her hand.

"Let's go."

Disconnected, Dissociated, Disowned (Or: There's No Such Thing As America)

295 mass shootings in 274 days is a little over 1.09 mass shootings per day. We're on pace for 394 in 2015, which is fucking retarded. There's almost no point in saying anything about it, and that's fucking sad.

I have nothing I can say about mental health that hasn't been said repeatedly.

I have nothing I can say about gun laws that hasn't already been debated to death.

I have nothing I can say about human nature, or the value of examining the psyche of the perpetrator, or any of that deep, meaningful stuff.

But I've noticed something. I've noticed people saying things like 'We as Americans,' or 'We as a country,' and I've had a bit of a realization. See, this notion that we see ourselves as one nation, this idea that we should coexist for mutual benefit, that doesn't really have a lot of traction in this country. On the whole, Americans aren't in this together; we're in this for ourselves.

We don't care about the well-being of our countrymen; we only care about being better than the next guy. We don't care about mutual cooperation; we only care about being right where the next guy is wrong. We don't care about justice for all; we only care about coming out on top, because America is not a nation; America is a competition, and if you're not winning, then fuck you.

That's bullshit. America is bullshit, and our ideals are a lie, and every ounce of blood spilled in our daily mass shootings is our fault because we're all a bunch of snivelling, prideful shits who can't see anything beyond our own sense of moral and intellectual superiority.

So, go on, and have your same old arguments about the same old shit, and insist that anyone who doesn't completely agree with you is anti-American, or the literal Devil, and do absolutely nothing to try to see each other as fellow human beings who are, in fact, in this shit show together, with only each other to count on.

I'll be over here, stupidly believing that things will get better, and that this instinctual need to be better than everyone else will eventually fade from our collective psyche. I'll be over here doing the math as the bodies pile up due to our pride and greed, and I'll keep grieving and doing my best to love you and care about you amidst the ugliness.

Because well get better. Because we have to, or eventually we won't have a country left to save.

The Birth of Hillpunk?

You didn't get this view in the city. An ocean of grass spread out before her, swaying in the wind in odd patterns. As she thought about it, she had to wonder if she'd ever actually seen the wind before. She'd felt it, to be sure, though it was usually exhaust from a cooling unit, or the wake of a glidecar. But to see it; that was something else entirely.

"Never been outside the city before, have ya?" asked one of the others. She looked over, one of the boys giving her a smug look. She knew she didn't need to answer. She looked back out the door of the train, to the landscape scrolling by, slower in the back, where the foothills began, and faster up front, that sea of grass whipping by at an intimidating speed.

"Look at her. Mezzed by fuckin' grass," said the same boy.

"Shut your face, Fick," said someone else; one of the girls. She didn't look back to see who. "She didn't choose to grow up in that shithole."

She was right. Gage hadn't chosen to grow up in Bigpool, surrounded by the waste of the metroplex. She hadn't chosen to not see the sky until the age of 9, thanks to all the towering metal behemoths. She hadn't chosen to be a speck, surrounded by chaos.

She missed it, though. She hadn't been gone more than three days, but she already missed the charming anarchy. She missed having a dozen different voices chattering in her head, the challenge of having to pick out the relevant bits from each. She missed having the totality of the Belly's knowledge at her fingertips. She was disconnected, scared, and lonely.

But the landscape helped, the wind dancing in the grass, and the earth rising in the distance. And so did the sound of Shorty's odd instrument, the pluck of a string drawing the attention of all the freight car's occupants. Bantree, the oldest girl, had called it a dulcimer. It was a series of metal strings pulled tightly over a warped board, looking both simple and impossible. Gage suspected she would never understand how Shorty made the sounds he made with it.

"What'cha got for us this time, Short-stuff?" asked Bantree. Shorty didn't answer; he never did. As far as Gage could tell, the only time he ever spoke was when he was singing. And he could sing.

"I am a pooooooor, wayfarin' stranger," he sang with his dusky tenor. Several of the others leaned forward, pleased smiles on their faces, and Gage found herself joining them.

"Travelin' throoooough, this world of woe
There is no sickneeeeesss, toil or danger
In that fair laaaaaand, to which I go"

Gage sighed softly, gently resting her head against the wall of the car. Shorty was going to steal all of the hearts when he got older.

"I'm goin' hooooooome, to see my mother
I'm goin' hooooooome, no more to roam
I'm just-a goin', over Jordan
I'm just-a goin' over home"
Gage closed her eyes as Shorty played on, only somewhat surprised that a tear slipped out of her real one. She missed her home. She missed her friends, and her dad. She missed Blitz. She could only wonder if she'd ever see any of them again.

The train was taking her somewhere, with a bunch of backwater hill kids. She just hoped it was more like Shorty's paradise, and less like all the tales on the net.

That First Verse in 'Two-Headed Boy, Part 2'

Dad,

Earlier this year, we had lunch at the Shari's by the Franklin Park Mall. It was our first significant contact in some time, and, surprisingly, I was the one that initiated it, by calling you and inviting you to talk.

I wanted to give us a shot. I wanted to at least make an attempt at having a relationship with my father. I wanted to let you know that I understood why you were so angry, that, in the nearly two decades that I've spent trying to recover, I've come to realize how the cycle of abuse propagates.

So we talked. It went okay, for the most part. I told you the things I wanted to tell you, and I opened the door for us to have some kind of relationship, and then you kinda slammed it shut. As we got deeper into our conversation, it started to become apparent that you either had no idea what you had done to drive me away, or were willingly refusing to acknowledge it. You implied a belief that I avoided you because you had been unable to help me. This is in line with your non-apologies of the past, about how no one told you how to raise a child.

Here's the thing about that: that puts the onus on me. That makes me the problem, the one who was defective. Accordingly, to this day, I see myself as the failure, as the problem.

There was something about your inability to admit that you abused me, your insistence that you simply didn't know what to do with me, that slapped me in the face. It hurt, you know? Do you know how hard it was to not see you as a monster? Do you have any idea how much thought and self-discovery it took to understand that you were only lashing out because of what happened to you?

I've spent 20 years of my life and more trying to cope with the shit you did to me. It's been agony. Do you know how often I think about killing myself just because of how much work I have left to do? It's pretty goddamned constant. But I persist. I persist because of the people who love me. I persist because, deep down in the darkness, and the self-loathing, and the despair, some small part of me still thinks life is worth living. As much as I'm hesitant to think admit it for fear of complimenting myself, I've done an incredible amount of work, and made an incredible amount of progress.

The least you could have done was admit what you did. The least you could have given me was an actual apology. Instead, you threw that bullshit in my face. Again.

Well, fuck you. I persist. I persist, and I remain extant in spite of you and what you did to me. I don't need you in my life. I don't want you in my life. And all this bullshit you've left me with, this inability to appreciate my accomplishments, this daily misery and existential angst is going as well.

The real bitch about this letter is that, despite that last paragraph, I still have sympathy for you. I still understand you, much as I might not want to, because I've been you. But I'm leaving that behind, and I'm leaving you behind, and I don't think I'm gonna look back, at least not for a long while.

No Title Is Enough To Express My Anguish And Rage

After a discussion with a friend yesterday, I told myself I wasn't gonna write a big thing about Charleston. I simply can't afford to care about every bad thing that happens, and this one was weighing on me particularly heavy. I went to sleep with it in my head, and I woke up with it in my head. So, I'm gonna write a big thing about Charleston.

I've seen a lot of angry things written, and with good reason. Gawker debates whether we should be calling this terrorism. Friends have decried the fact that this keeps happening, and that we now consider it 'normal.' Liberal media outlets are calling for gun control, which is missing the point. Conservative media outlets are decrying an imaginary rising hostility towards the religious, for some retarded reason.

I feel a lot of that anger, but I'm not gonna write a big angry thing. We already have enough big angry things. So, I'm going to write something different.

First, let me say unequivocally that Dylann Roof did a very bad, evil thing, and he is guilty of it. He chose to do what he did himself. I will also say that there is no instance of this kind of violence that could reasonably be called 'tolerable.' This was horrible, it was a horrible thing, and it will always be a horrible thing.

According to the CDC, in 2013 (the last year for which we have complete data), the death by homicide rate for all Americans was 5.1 per 100,000 people. That's the highest rate for any country in the civilized world, and that's bad. At the same time, we're talking about 0.000051% of Americans. I don't mean to imply those deaths are insignificant, but it's important to recognize how statistically unusual it is for any given person to be killed by homicide, because it sure isn't represented as unusual.

Briefly, modern media is casting a much larger net than it used to. We're hearing about more and more violent crimes, and that can fuck with our perception of our population as a whole.

Now, we still have a large problem in this country. As much as I support reasonable gun control measures, gun control is not the problem. As much as our mental health infrastructure is lacking, it's also not the source of the problem.

To illustrate the problem, I'm going to pull another number from the same report: 13.0. That's the rate per 100,000 people for death by suicide. That's more than two-and-a-half times higher than the murder rate, and in the Top 10 causes of death, but you don't see it reported nearly as much. For the 25-54 age group, that rates jumps to 16.9. I'm not a sociologist. I can't say with certainty what the cause of all this is, but I have an observation.

The American economy is based on continual growth. This has called for an increased emphasis on productivity and profit, and as a result of lax regulations, worker conditions have suffered; wages are stagnant, so people are doing more, companies are earning more money, and the workers are slowly getting squeezed.

This is pressure, in the purest, most terrible form. This is pressure to produce. This is pressure to succeed. And it has spread throughout our society, right down to our kids. You might notice some parallels to our education system here; an emphasis not on critical thinking or personal growth, but on test scores and memorized facts.

Humans are a durable species. We can survive incredible, temporary hardships. But put a group of us under intense pressure for a decade, or two, or three, or ten, and we start to crack. And that's what we're seeing. Parents are put under too much pressure to produce; they have less and less time and energy to nurture their kids. The public education system is under too much pressure to produce; they have less time and energy to nurture their kids.

You look at all this pressure, and you can begin to see how a human like Dylann Roof, or Adam Lanza, or Eric Harris, or Dylan Klebold can come to be. Too much pressure, too little growth and guidance, and we break.

It's very easy to make these people out to be monsters, and again, I'm not defending what they did, but simply calling them monsters and then switching the conversation to some talking point does us all a disservice. The horrible truth about the people who commit these acts is that they are not monsters, but human beings who endured too much pressure, and got too little help. Given the same circumstances, it could just as easily been any of us 'normal' people.

That's the truth that we're too reluctant to admit. This isn't some unexplainable, almost supernatural phenomenon. This isn't the result of some political agenda or movement. This is simply what happens to us when we look at ourselves as numbers instead of people. This is what happens to us when all we care about is production. This is what happens to us when we stop caring.

The good news, and the hopeful news, is that there was a time before this was the case. That means there will be a time after this was the case. It may not be in our lifetime, and it may get a lot worse before we get there, but sooner or later, this too will pass, and we'll decide that 5.1 in 100,000 is too many, and 13 in 100,000 is too many, and that there are more important things in this world than production, profit, and test scores.

Not today. But someday.

A Rough Prologue For 'Mel's Delivery Service'

Dark, violent tones filled Jagr's ears, a cacophony of layered vibrations helping to drown out his other senses. He liked to close his eyes while he listened; it helped him feel like he was far away, floating on an ocean of sound, instead of being in the middle of another boring-ass watch rotation. He imagined himself roiling in the waves, the transcendent beats tearing him apart and putting him back together, like he was made of doll parts.

Apart.
Together.
Apart.
Together.
Apart.
Toge-

"JAGR!"

He clutched the back of his head, suddenly realizing he'd been hit upside it. He flicked the music off, looking over to Raid, his fellow Watcherman, and easily the more responsible of the two.

"What?! Jesus..." Jagr complained, rubbing the back of his head as he got to his feet.

"We got a Runner," he said, nodding out into the darkness. Jagr sighed, blinking into NV and staring out into the night beyond the wall.

"Where?" he said, only seeing the same broken cityscape as most nights. He was slightly disappointed, actually; runners were one of the more exciting things the Watchers got to see.

"There," Raid said, pointing to the southeast. "Just went under that overpass."

Jagr zoomed in on the overpass, and finally spotted it as the lights of the runner pierced through the darkness. It became a lot easier to see once it cleared the overpass, not least of all because the vehicle was partially on fire.

"Oh, shit," Jagr muttered as the runner swerved along the road, small arms flashing in the darkness.

"They're comin' in hot," said Raid, already moving for the Nest. Feeling a small surge of excitement, Jagr followed, practically hopping down the ladder and looking to a tarp-covered protrusion. He pulled off the covering, revealing the repeating slugger beneath.

"Load up," Raid ordered, and Jagr complied, his heart pounding as the reality of the situation dawned on him. A Runner was headed for their gate. A Runner that was on fire. A Runner being chased by Syns.

He kicked open the ammo box at the base of the slugger, grabbing one end of the bullet chain and slapping it into the feeder. He spared a glance out towards the Runner, expecting to see a horde of machines in pursuit, but there was no metal army, no swarm of synthetic platforms. There was just one machine. One giant, six-legged machine, bigger than the Runner itself, and apparently just as fast.

"Fuckin' hell," Jagr muttered breathlessly, unable to take his eyes off the monstrosity. "Are you seeing this?"

"Shut up and cock your fucking gun!" Raid chastised. Jagr grabbed the heavy bolt on the side of the slugger, pulling it back with some difficulty and letting it slam forward, chambering the first round. He and Raid took aim, waiting for the Runner to get in range.

"Go for the legs," Raid said. It made sense to Jagr; it'd be easier to destroy if it wasn't scurrying along like some giant-ass metal ant from Hell.

The Runner cleared the first perimeter, and the Watchers opened up, adding their fire to the Runner's mounted slugger. If the Syn ant cared, it didn't show it, still scurrying after the Runner, clambering right over the first perimeter, only slowed a moment by the giant chain barrier.

The Runner made a beeline for the gate, which was already opening. As the Syn moved closer to the city, other Nests along the wall joined in, focusing fire at the machine's legs. It advanced menacingly for another moment, at which point it's right foreleg crumpled, the joint destroyed by the slugger fire. It stumbled a bit, trying to get closer before another of its legs broke off.

Jagr couldn't remember the last time a Syn got this close to the Wall. He certainly had never seen one this big, either, that realization reinforced by the proximity. He couldn't imagine what it had been like when these things were everywhere. They liked to tell you growing up that the Endwar could have been avoided. With shit like this walking around, Jagr couldn't imagine how.

The third leg finally put the beast down, its sluggers firing uselessly into the road. He was surprised to see the thing still had ammo. The Runner must have gone off the mapped roads to cut time, a common tactic with a common outcome. He'd never seen anything this big woken up, though. Where the fuck had that Runner been?

The Thing I Wanted to Happen Happened and It's Blowing My Damned Mind

Sometimes you go through things that make you feel stuff you don't want to feel. It happens to everyone. Usually, it's not your fault. It wasn't mine, anyway.

After years and years, I locked the feelings away, in this beastly cage I made in my own psyche. This allowed me to function.

But not to live.

Monsters were not put into me. This darkness that I hated so much wasn't foreign, it was just the part of me that was hurt. And I locked it away, never intending to let it out. I didn't like what it did.

But I need it. It's me. It's my life that I locked in there, that spark that burns amidst the nothing, that creates in a vacuum. It's my potential.

Some time ago, I convinced myself to reintegrate it, to let it out. I didn't know what that would look like. I didn't know how it would feel.

I do now.

I'm frightened. I'm devastated. I'm angry. I'm whole. I'm free.

Or I'm getting there, at least. This was it. This was the thing I needed, what I've been searching for, left behind where I'd already been.