A Feather to a Bullet Hole

April 1, 2023 

Dear Fiona, 

I read a psychology book a few days ago about ways to cope with trauma, grief, and subsequent depression. Keeping a journal where you write everything down is supposed to be cathartic or something. I'm not really comfortable writing to some great unknown entity so I decided to pretend I'm writing this to my sister, Fiona. Surprisingly it is helping a bit to imagine you're still here with me. 

So, I guess it's been three years now. Strange how normal life still is. Not to say it is in any way good, but I sort of figured that the skies would be on fire and there would be earthquakes daily or something when the apocalypse hit. Instead, the survivors were perfectly content to throw a shovelful of dirt on the mass graves and step right back into their old roles. 

I got mom's old job at the factory. She wasn't going to be showing up anymore. I remember the first time I stepped foot in the factory. You were maybe four years old then so you might not remember yourself, but I remember thinking how massive everything was. How crowded. 

It's not crowded anymore. 

Dawn Kennison has your old job. I know how pissed that must make you to know, but she's changed a lot since you knew her back in high school. I guess trauma does that to a person. Changes them. I know it changed me. 

It's small things, really. Things that used to make me laugh have no meaning to me anymore. Certain sounds remind me of when things got really bad. Sometimes, my mind and body stop communicating and I find myself curled up on the ground shaking with no idea of how long I had been there. I still see bodies in the streets. 

I think that's enough for now. 

All my love, 

Natalie 

April 7, 2023 

Dear Fiona, 

I'm not great at this whole daily journaling thing. I guess I just don't have much to tell. You must think that's really funny since I hardly ever shut up when we were kids. I remember dad said I had a future as a talk show host. Shame there aren't any more talk shows. That sounds more fun than working in the factory. 

I did get a new dog. In other words, I found a starving stray on the streets again and he followed me home. That makes four. Remember when dad made us get rid of Grizzly? Do you even remember Grizzly? It broke my heart. 

Someone was looking at the house next to me. I'd like new neighbors. I'm sure they won't appreciate the dogs, but one can only go so long without seeing another person. Outside of work at least. There are thirteen other people that work my shift with me at the factory, but we're spread so thin we don't really talk much. 

Okay, I need to sleep. 

Good night, 

Natalie 

April 18, 2023 

Dear Fiona, 

I saw a pregnant woman the other day. I was so surprised it took my brain a few minutes to process what I was seeing. It's wild to think of life just up and moving on in spite of everything, but it is. I hope I get to see the baby when it's born. 

I wonder what my baby would have looked like. More like Ronan or more like me? What do you think? I sort of hoped he would have had my eyes, but everything else could have been Ronan. He'd be two now. I still have that list of baby names we had been arguing over. 

I mowed the grass the other day. Another pin in the odd normalcy of life moving on. I'm not sure I want to move on sometimes. Maybe that's too grim. 

I've decided to repaint the living room. The maroon is starting to give me a headache. Maybe I'll do a sea foam green. Or a pastel blue. Something sweet and calming.   

We'll talk soon. 

I miss you, 

Natalie 

May 3, 2023 

Dear Fiona, 

I don't think this journaling is really helping. It's too stressful to try and think of something new to tell you every day. Nothing new or interesting is happening. Not to me. Not to anyone. The world is just a big shit hole and nothing good ever happens. 

Sometimes I think you were lucky. Everyone always calls me the lucky one. Both parents and sister gone in a flash. Then, as if that wasn't enough, my husband and child are ripped from my arms. My fever was so high I couldn't even feel the miscarriage as it dripped down my thighs. And for some godforsaken reason, I pull through.   

I'm lucky? That's what the doctors said. What dad's friend said when I came home. I think the opposite is true. You are the lucky ones. You and mom and dad and Ronan and my baby. You don't have to live without me. 

I'm so tired, Fi.   

Natalie 

July 4, 2023 

Dear Fiona, 

I don't think journaling is for me after all. I've been flipping through the days on autopilot. Nothing has meaning to me anymore. Food doesn't taste the same anymore. Nothing I try to do seems to erase the darkness that crept in when my body was weak and writhing in that hospital bed. Nothing I do can get rid of it. 

I want to be happy again. I want to laugh with you and Ronan again. I want to not be alone anymore. Instead, I'm pouring my heart and soul onto a couple of pages in a spiral notebook because the real, leather bound journals looked like too much of a commitment. I'm pretending you're on the other side of the page and one day you'll pick up a pen and write me back. 

I'm just going to take a break. Maybe I just need to get a good night's sleep. 

January 13, 2024 

Dear Fiona, 

I think you'd be happy to know that I'm no longer at the factory. I got work at an accounting firm that just opened. I've been there since September. I've been reading a lot more. Sleeping more. I know the last time I wrote to you I was in a pretty bad place. I reread it before I started this. My new job has really good insurance so I can afford to see a really good psychiatrist. She suggested I take up journaling again. 

The difference a few months can make. We already knew, of course. It only took a month to completely change the entire world's daily habits. It took five for me to change mine. 

Something made me curious when I was rereading my old entries. As much as I love you, I can't fathom why I decided to write my journals to you instead of Ronan. Maybe I was trying to save myself future guilt. I like to think Ronan would have been happy to see me moving on. 

Oh, right. I'm dating someone. His name is Eric. He bought the house next door. He saved me back in July. For a little while, he was my living journal. I unloaded on him almost daily. My psychiatrist has explained all the many reasons that isn't healthy in a lasting relationship of any kind. So here I am journaling again. 

I still miss you all. The pain is still there when I think of you, but I think it might be less now. Before it was so bad it was swallowing me up. All I could feel was pain so intense nothing good could get through. Like trying to use a feather to tickle a person that's just been shot. All-consuming pain. But now I'm starting to feel good things again. 

I caught myself humming the other day. I don't even remember the last time I listened to music, but there I was humming.   

Not to say I don't still have bad days. Sometimes I tear the stitches in my bullet wound and the pain swallows me up again. When that happens, Eric is there to stitch me up again. He doesn't even mind the dogs. 

That's all for today. I'll talk to you soon. 

All my love, 

Natalie