taking the blame.
The worst part about our own imaginations, is that they take the truth of our every day lives, the candor of our own every day experiences --- every facet and element of the truth --- and exaggerate these modicums of ephemeral information to grandiose, astronomical, disgustingly colossal proportions. When you think long and hard on something that you’ve done, you begin to feel a certain level of remorse, regardless of what that thing is. It doesn’t matter if you were out and about, and happened to pick up some litter, or trash along the street ; it doesn’t matter if you were out feeding the homeless --- your imagination will do everything in its power, to find some way of making it, that charity, that good will, into something that is foul, and wicked. The imagination can posses a tendency to twist around your memories, and contort them into cramped and often unsightly urns, vases, and boxes --- where they will never again be accessed the same way, or without some measure of discomfort and pain. You remember that day you did some good, and your brain says to you: ‘ You’ve littered before, too. It’s not like you’re a saint. ‘ Or it will say, ‘ Well, you should have brought more. There are ten other people without money, houses, or families, who need food too. It’s all your fault. ‘
The worst part about being a wolf ? You feel everyone else’s guilt.
‘ Guilt is cancer. ‘ They say. Guilt will confine you, it will torture you, destroy you as an artist, a teacher, a politician, a religious leader. As an anything. It's a black wall. You can’t get past it. It's a thief.
He heard her there, every night for the past week, cursing herself for the plague of mourning, sorrow, and shame she’d brought to her family.
God dammit Leah.
And every time Seth heard that, in tandem with the howl of a wolf, when he would lay his head to sleep at night, the moon high in the sky and shining through his window, even when the blinds were down --- it almost hurt him worse than the moment Harry died. He saw it happen, the breath escape his lungs, and the convulsion of his limbs, and Leah --- a fanged mess amid torn clothes and scraps of fabric strewn about the floor. It throbbed in his head, her muttering to herself, and her refusals to cry. Her teeth clenching, the flaring of her nostrils. The words that left her mouth hot, and sharp. They throbbed in his head like a burst ear drum, and he couldn’t escape it any more than she could
At least he didn’t have to live with the guilt.
You know, the bar - style type kitchens that are small ? They have barely enough room for a crock-pot on that limited counter space, and there’s an oven, but once you open the door it takes up the entire width of the floor, cupboard to cupboard. The room consists cheap tile that hasn’t been chiseled away and replaced in ages, cedar wood stools and doilies and woven rosettes that tell stories of a grand line of Quileute men, fishermen, shark and whale hunters —- they mark the walls. A few pictures of Seth and Leah from when they were young framed on their very average - sized mantle. A couch and a coffee table furnished the living room —- a short, very compact set of stairs that led to a narrow hallway, where you’d find the entrances to four segregate bedrooms. Leah’s was the first, kind of messy and very ordinary. The desk top in there was clean. One, was an office — maybe — one would suppose. There, they kept fishing supplies and camping equipment. Down the hall and to the left was where Harry and his wife slept, and now, there was a permanent imprint on that old dusty mattress next to Sue’s spot on the bed. Untouched for what seemed like forever. Seth’s bedroom, next door, being the smallest. Cluttered. He had posters of race cars, probably posters he got for free at movie releases in the town over, Port Angeles. There were blinds and a window, several dream catchers and albatross feathers lining the board above his door frame. He didn’t mind it, though. He liked his room exactly how it was. Dirt and all.
But he’d left it. He left all of that to make his journey down the hall, tiptoeing on the old hard - wood floor that hadn’t been waxed in years, so as to not disturb the den mother. He was only wearing a blue T - shirt and some pajama pants. Plaid. Also blue. He’d gone commando. Thank God they didn’t share a room anymore. Whether consciously or not, we are all on some kind of quest for answers, trying to learn the lessons of life, and what it has to offer us. We grapple with fear and guilt, and we turn in our sleep. We search for meaning, love, and usually power --- but sometimes, we are only looking for compassion, and understanding. We try to understand fear, loss, and time. We seek compassionate people that will help us to discover who we are, and how we can become truly happy. Unfortunately, Seth didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have any of the answers. But if he had within himself one saving grace, it was his compassion. ❝ — ❞ He’d crept around the corner, now. His hands were wrapped around the door frame, after knocking tentatively on the door. His cheek was flush with that door frame. He didn’t wait for her to answer it. Normally, he would have.
You know how kids are always playing that silly game of lava - monster ? It's great fun --- of course --- when you're between the ages of four, and twelve. The confines of Leah Clearwater's room were like --- say --- a near boundless, fervid, igneous inferno fueled by rage, agitation, estrogen, unexplained adolescent indignation, and above all else, it was laden with sharpness and unrelenting acidity. The whole room steamed, bubbled, boiled in front him, and he was reluctant to step inside the door. If he had made one mistake in his life, it was entering Leah's room --- God forbid, without permission.
❝Leah.❞ ❝It’s not your fault ... ❞
