“As a middle child, I’m sandwiched between homicide and schizophrenia” was my answer to the question.
My partner laughed, naturally.
“No really, that’s what I write about” I clarified.
Her face fell, with some flash fire amalgam of emotions impossible to read on their own simply due to the instancy of gravity. In half a second her gaze landed squarely on to mine in that way kind people do when they know an immediate remedy is required.
“I thought you were kidding” she exhaled in a whispered apology typically reserved for this kind of stranger intimacy.
“No, that is my life” I breathed back, feeling once again the unique bond that is formed only by tragedy inviting compassion through it’s longing door.