after him, you certainly don’t mind me doing other things for you. I should make you get your own bloody backpack and pillow.”
“You’re right. You should.”
“Is there anything else you need while I’m here, Your Highness?”
“No, but you can leave the sarcasm in there.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I speak proper English, botched Acholi, British slang, and fluent sarky, sarky being the language I speak most eloquently.”
“I’m impressed. And I’m still waiting to hear you cuss like a sailor.”
“Then you’ll be waiting a bit. I’m making an effort to stop all of that. If there’s one area of me that the devil’s got a hold of, it’s my tongue.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And his grip is tight. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What area does the devil have the strongest hold on you?”
“Maybe that isn’t any of your business.”
“Is anything my business? Because it sure doesn’t feel as if it is.”
She dropped my backpack onto my lap with a thud, and it did enough damage that I knew I wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. I hid my agony behind a groan when I lifted the bag off my lap and threw it on the ground beside me. She didn’t notice any of it. She was too busy talking.
“You’re living a big secret. I get it. But it’s hard to become someone’s pal when they won’t tell you anything about themselves.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll survive. I’ve survived much worse. That’s for certain. A little rejection from you isn’t going to do permanent damage.”
“It’s not rejection.”
She sat down on the sleeping bag and removed her shoes, tied the laces back, and set them right next to her bag.
I wondered if she might have a little OCD with all the straightening she did. I also realized that she had a point. She’d revealed a lot about herself, pretty much anything I’d asked. I, on the other hand, hadn’t told her anything.
“It’s drinking.”
“Pardon me?” she asked, flipping onto her stomach and resting her chin in her hands.
“That’s the hold the devil’s got over me. Or at least he’s trying, anyway. I barely touch the stuff anymore.”
“You’re only twenty-two. How did it get a grip on you so
young?”
“In my circles, it’s easy to get your hands on. Everyone’s doing it, and everyone’s shoving a drink in your hand. They never let your glass go dry.”
“So it’s everyone else’s fault that you drink too much? Spare me the sob story.”
“Nice bit of compassion there.”
“I’m a firm believer that you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. Unless people are pouring it down your throat, you can’t blame them.”
“That’s a little harsh from someone who doesn’t even know me. And a little judgmental.”
“Telling you that you’re responsible for your own actions is judgmental? Must be a thing in the States. Where I come from, it’s called the brutal truth. And trust me. You aren’t the only person who’s had to accept responsibility for something they’ve done that they wish they hadn’t. I’ve got three of them living in my house right now.”
“Three alcoholics?”
“Three murderers. Former LRA members. They killed hundreds. Like you, they didn’t feel they had a choice. They were told to kill or they’d be killed themselves.”
“Then you can’t blame them for what they did.”
“I don’t blame them. They blame themselves, and that’s what eats them up inside. And I’d like the record to reflect that I never said I blamed you for your drinking. I said you should take responsibility for your part. That’s not blame; that’s truth. And the truth is what sets you free. Denial and pointing blame only give the issue more power.”
As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. If I had had her around to tell me that earlier, I could’ve saved a lot of time and money on therapy.
“Well, I haven’t become a full-blown
“You’re right. You should.”
“Is there anything else you need while I’m here, Your Highness?”
“No, but you can leave the sarcasm in there.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“I speak proper English, botched Acholi, British slang, and fluent sarky, sarky being the language I speak most eloquently.”
“I’m impressed. And I’m still waiting to hear you cuss like a sailor.”
“Then you’ll be waiting a bit. I’m making an effort to stop all of that. If there’s one area of me that the devil’s got a hold of, it’s my tongue.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And his grip is tight. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What area does the devil have the strongest hold on you?”
“Maybe that isn’t any of your business.”
“Is anything my business? Because it sure doesn’t feel as if it is.”
She dropped my backpack onto my lap with a thud, and it did enough damage that I knew I wouldn’t be walking anytime soon. I hid my agony behind a groan when I lifted the bag off my lap and threw it on the ground beside me. She didn’t notice any of it. She was too busy talking.
“You’re living a big secret. I get it. But it’s hard to become someone’s pal when they won’t tell you anything about themselves.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you worry. I’ll survive. I’ve survived much worse. That’s for certain. A little rejection from you isn’t going to do permanent damage.”
“It’s not rejection.”
She sat down on the sleeping bag and removed her shoes, tied the laces back, and set them right next to her bag.
I wondered if she might have a little OCD with all the straightening she did. I also realized that she had a point. She’d revealed a lot about herself, pretty much anything I’d asked. I, on the other hand, hadn’t told her anything.
“It’s drinking.”
“Pardon me?” she asked, flipping onto her stomach and resting her chin in her hands.
“That’s the hold the devil’s got over me. Or at least he’s trying, anyway. I barely touch the stuff anymore.”
“You’re only twenty-two. How did it get a grip on you so
young?”
“In my circles, it’s easy to get your hands on. Everyone’s doing it, and everyone’s shoving a drink in your hand. They never let your glass go dry.”
“So it’s everyone else’s fault that you drink too much? Spare me the sob story.”
“Nice bit of compassion there.”
“I’m a firm believer that you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. Unless people are pouring it down your throat, you can’t blame them.”
“That’s a little harsh from someone who doesn’t even know me. And a little judgmental.”
“Telling you that you’re responsible for your own actions is judgmental? Must be a thing in the States. Where I come from, it’s called the brutal truth. And trust me. You aren’t the only person who’s had to accept responsibility for something they’ve done that they wish they hadn’t. I’ve got three of them living in my house right now.”
“Three alcoholics?”
“Three murderers. Former LRA members. They killed hundreds. Like you, they didn’t feel they had a choice. They were told to kill or they’d be killed themselves.”
“Then you can’t blame them for what they did.”
“I don’t blame them. They blame themselves, and that’s what eats them up inside. And I’d like the record to reflect that I never said I blamed you for your drinking. I said you should take responsibility for your part. That’s not blame; that’s truth. And the truth is what sets you free. Denial and pointing blame only give the issue more power.”
As much as I hated to admit it, she had a point. If I had had her around to tell me that earlier, I could’ve saved a lot of time and money on therapy.
“Well, I haven’t become a full-blown
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