Burn Before Reading(109)

There’s Fitz, the flippant and sarcastic golden baby of the three. He used to do a lot of drugs to take the edge off of losing his mother, but he went sober a year ago. Because of me. Because I passed out at a party from a tranquilizer he gave me. I landed in a pool and nearly drowned. He hasn’t touched a single substance since then. I know it started out as his way of punishing himself, but he told me yesterday he’s glad he did it. He’s glad I almost drowned. And as weird as it is to say something like that, that’s just how Fitz is. He says it with a smile all the time; “I’m glad you almost drowned”. And I know what he really means. He’s thanking me, in the only way he knows how.

And then there’s Burn, who doesn’t need to say anything at all. I used to be scared of him, since he’s extremely tall and never smiles. But that was just me judging a book by it’s very intimidating cover. He didn’t used to show much emotion at all. That was his way of dealing with his mother’s death; the less words he had to say, the less he had to interact with people. The less he had to explain his feelings to people – feelings he didn’t understand himself all that well. We ask how people are feeling all the time, but I never thought about what a flimsy and useless platitude it is. If we’re asked that, we never answer truthfully. Burn taught me that sometimes asking how someone is is the worst thing you can do. He taught me the truth is sometimes more important than being polite.

Finally, there’s Wolf. Wolf taught my heart how to beat. Not just survival-beat, slow and easy, but thunderously, like a storm rumbling your windows in the sills. He was slow, coming into my life with the speed of a far-off cloud, but he held the same pressure. You know, the pressure just before a storm, suffocating and everywhere. Not in a bad way. In a rain-after-a-drought way. I couldn’t hate the pressure when I knew it was here to water my crops and save my life.

Maybe not my life. Maybe just my heart.

He taught me it’s alright to burn. He taught me that fire doesn’t only destroy – it reveals the new, tiny sprouts lying in wait to grow; sprouts you would’ve ignored, sprouts that would’ve died otherwise.

Wolf’s sitting right beside me as I write this. He’s telling me to tell you guys to burn this essay before you read it, before you fall in love with me, too. That’s how he met me – through my writing. He tried to get me expelled. It’s a long story. One I might write about someday. And if you accept me into your college, I might write about it a little better than I would if I’d gone elsewhere. I’ve got dozens of stories in me. Hundreds. And you’re welcome to help me get them out into the world. You’re welcome to be a part of my journey.

My name is Beatrix Cruz, and no matter what anyone says, no matter if you accept me or not, I’m going to be a writer. No matter how many times hardship overshadows me, I’m going to write all the stories inside of me. Because it’s selfish. Because I’m me, and I’ve learned to be selfish. Because there are always sprouts waiting just below the surface of the ashes.

So go ahead. Reject me. Accept me.

Whatever you do, burn this before reading.


THE END