Maria Isabel Barreno, Maria Teresa Horta, and Maria Velho da Costa, tr. by Helen R. Lane, from The Three Marias: New Portuguese Letters; “Fátima”
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Maria Isabel Barreno, Maria Teresa Horta, and Maria Velho da Costa, tr. by Helen R. Lane, from The Three Marias: New Portuguese Letters; “Fátima”

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The sound of papers hitting his desk was what got Price to finally look up at the man standing before his desk. He sighed, rubbing his face as he pulled the papers closer to him.
"Your report on the last mission, Garrick?" he asked, glancing over the top paper briefly. Perfectly typed, as usual, concise and clear. Just as he expected from Garrick.
"Yes, sir," the sergeant replied. Then, "And my transfer request as well."
Price paused. Looked up at Garrick. "Transfer request?"
"Yes sir."
Price sat back in his chair. "Why? This, this is a bit out of the blue sergeant. If someone's been giving you problems, you could have come to me. This is a bit... extreme."
Gaz didn't even shift his weight, just kept a cool gaze on Price as he replied. "No sir, I could not have. And I think this is perfectly reasonable."
"You still haven't answered why, sergeant."
Gaz's eyes narrowed, just enough to be noticed. Price suddenly got the feeling that he'd missed something, something big.
"You don't trust me anymore, you don't communicate with me anymore. Whenever I do something alone, I'm always grilled over what I'm doing or why I'm doing it, yet none of you tell me where you're going or what you're doing unless I practically beg for answers. I'm not invited out to squad get-togethers, I'm not included in your jokes. Ghost and Soap can hang out in your office whenever they want, but when I try it's always "Was there anything else, Sergeant?" or "Not now, Sergeant". I left for a month long mission, to see if anything would change by the time I got back. To see if anyone would miss me enough to ask me how I'd been. The rookies asked. The med staff asked. But you didn't. And neither did Ghost or Soap, who hadn't even seemed to notice I'd left, given they hadn't even been there to see me off or welcome me back. Ghost hasn't spoken to me other than to give orders in almost three months. Soap talks to me, but he doesn't ask how I'm doing or what I've been up to. All he talks about is him and Ghost and you. And you don't talk to me as Kyle, only ever as Sergeant Garrick."
Gaz stops to take a breath. Closes his eyes briefly. The continues just as strongly, in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone.
"I know you, Ghost, and Soap are together. Have been for a while. And I didn't mind giving up some time with you lot so you could be together alone. But I know where I'm not wanted, Captain. I might be an operator in this Task Force, but clearly I'm not a teammate anymore, if I ever was. So, I am putting in a transfer request. Perhaps the next operator you get will be more welcome than I was."
Gaz doesn't wait to be dismissed. He turns on his heel, and walks out of Price's office without a twitch of his head in Price's direction.
Price sits in silence, frozen, papers still in his hands. He blinks, shuffles through the stack, until he finds the transfer request. Just as neatly done as the report. Concise, and clear.
He stares at it as he wonders where it all went wrong.
I don’t need to sacrifice my needs to feel safe. The right people will stay, even when I choose myself.
I want to haunt you—not out of anger,
but because your silence
turned me feral.
A ghost at your doorstep
felt closer
than the living thing
you abandoned.

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Ariadne (1886) by Sir John Lavery, R.A., R.H.A., R.S.A. (Irish, 1856 – 1941), signed twice J Lavery (lower right), oil on canvas, unframed: 174 x 113cm.; 68¼ x 44½in, framed: 193 x 133.5cm.; 76 x 52½in.
on being left
drift, alek olsen / cheryl strayed / u.k / u.k / trista mateer / rebecca malakai / u.k / marya hornbacher / jan heller levi