Thursday, April 30, 2009


I had told you that she would be difficult and that it would be better this way. So you pretended to be my brother. We waited at the bottom of the stone three story walk up. She answered the door, big blond hair, large body brimming over a pencil dress. She let us in a dark entrance and showed us the stairs up to our room. He was lying in his underpants in the foyer, post coital. We walked around him. Once in our room we closed the door and I got to work; these are the things we will need I said in a hushed voice to you. You watched me as I dug out a newspaper insert and began to cut each page into quarters. I had other things but for now had to go to the bathroom. You followed me to the door, leaned against it and we locked our eyes together as I peed. Movement from behind your head I saw her coming into the room much like in one of the last scenes of Psycho, when deceased Mother is tied to a swivel chair in the basement and Norman Bates comes crashing through the door with a knife in his hand wearing the blond wig. I screamed watch out just as she whipped you around and pushed you to the window on the other side of the bathroom. You yelled. I sat motionless on the toilet unable to move. Frozen in the moment of need. Unable to help you. A weight on my chest. In fact, this is how I awoke; struggling for breath in the middle of the night, in my bed, the size of an ocean. I thought of my mother immediately. Ashamed.

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