She didn't want him to forget.
About her, about the babies, about the nights, infected with verbal rabies. She wanted him to remember. Every single time she stepped down, waiting for him to step up, while he stepped out, and sat down to drown their lives in a bottle. Every single time he'd hobble up to the door, shouting "whore!" and met her socket with a knuckle. She wanted him to remember the buckle he'd used that one Christmas morning. Cartoons and toys, too early. She didn't want him to forget. So she found just the right carpet, big enough to roll his body.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |