mephistopheles: have you ever helped a loved one destroy themselves?
“Have you ever helped a loved one destroy themselves?”
He hates the way that Vir’s name comes to mind before he can suppress it. But still, he thinks of Vir - of his bright smile when they first met, the self-assured way he once carried himself, the way he swore he’d write the next Great American Novel as though it was a fact rather than a prayer. He remembers that vision, how palpable it had been. How it’s all but gone now, almost seven years later.
But that’s not Oliver’s fault. It’s this city, it’s these times, it’s the way that writer’s block won’t let Vir be the artist he’s meant to be. It’s not his fault.
('You want me to buy that, don’t you?’ He can’t forget the way Vir spat those words at him. ‘As though you don’t just take and take without a single thought about what I want.’ But what does he know?)
“It wasn’t —” It wasn’t like that. “I didn’t —” I didn’t realize my hand was around his throat until I had already suffocated him. He takes a deep breath, stuffs down his vulnerabilities before they have the chance to leak from his chest. “Whatever I’ve done, I don’t think I could have avoided it.” Translation: I destroyed one legacy to create another.
