A bit more to the story–a moment from Liz and Haddie’s childhood

As children, Liz and Haddie would play in their backyard in Connecticut, running through ferns and flowers, convinced that they lived among fairies and monsters.  Every patch of land was a universe of magic, every ladybug an imp princess, every silverfish a fiend.  Liz loved being led out there by her older sister, loved how Haddie would weave entire worlds for her from overgrown grass and translucent insect wings.  Everything else—helping mom clean the bathroom, dad’s beer-smell, church, math—none of that existed or there, or if it did, it was existed as something to fight against openly, not accept with smiles and nods and hiding in their closet until mom stopped yelling.  The world lived in their minds, and their minds breathed over the world.  And then Haddie changed.  Something happened in the field after they were separated that July twilight.  Liz ran and circled through the green, knew something was wrong but didn’t want to scream for Haddie.  Didn’t want to bring the monsters.  But she knew, even at ten years old, she knew that the monsters had gotten Haddie.  They stole her shine and fire.  Green eyes became gray.  After that, Liz never believed in fairies, but she knew that monsters always existed.  And, truth be told, she wanted them to get her, too.  And they did.  Being devoured was better than being alone.

Along with the monsters, middle-school.  Then divorce.  Then the years of hiding in herself while her body and words became everyone else’s.  Then Jacob.  Then Sam.  Then marriage.


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