Letter to Myself

I get mean when I'm nervous like a bad dog

Letter to Myself.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAnthony Lockwood had a habit of betting on the losing dogs. Pushing all his faith, his wealth into a bet he knew he would lose. Jude Walsh was the only one he would bet on.

Jude Walsh was a losing dog. Ugly, rotten, and numb. Pushing all faith away from himself as he looks at the only person (Anthony) who would bet for him with eyes looking down at him and himself.

There was a time when the two were happy and living childlike lives together. That was twelves years ago. They were no longer six and happy, they were eighteen and faking their feelings out of scenarios and work. The thought of being happy was shoved in the back of their minds, locked up with a lock and key.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ( Our suffering is deserved! )

Anthony Lockwood was a great pretender, beginning his act at the ripe age of six after Donald and Celia Lockwood perished. Sitting at the top of the stairs, eavesdropping on indistant conversation between his sister and authorities. "I'm sorry for your loss..." they started off slowly. The adolescent's heart, confused, quickened in panic. He covered his mouth in shock, tears slowly slipping down his face. He soon had to have those words repeated to him when he watched his parents get let down, the first time he ever felt let down by them.

The family of four soon became a family of two soon to one, leaving the last lonely Lockwood. They say the first stage of grief is denial and Anthony Lockwood has been in that stage for the past nine years. Punishing himself by distancing from emotions, never shedding a tear, putting on a charming smile. Becoming a prisoner of unresolved grief.

ㅤㅤThey won't tell the fake smile, right?

Jude Walsh was always accustomed to disappointment. In comparison, he was ugly, rotten, and nobody compared to Paul, his brother even at his demise. The whole family shut down when the death of Paul Walsh occurred and hell rose. A death of a false god, an idol and an end of family content and peace. A death of the only Walsh child, a martyr to the Problem. His death was the start of a never ending war of grieving and madness. Although Jude would never admit it, he would never that he thought he would be happy when he died. He never cried at his funeral (marking his first and largest regret). In the complex mind of an eleven year old, that meant he could finally earn the love he yearned for. He always pondered and dreamed the foreign idea of finally being loved and appreciated by his supposed 'loved ones.'