three or one

2 04 2012

This is the worst time of night.

Papers are due. When I try to write them, all I think is—


When I close computer, curtains, eyes, I cannot sleep but am besieged by thoughts of home. Where I will be. Wednesday. Where the battle is brewing. Where Father is finding daily new and creative and vile ways of making life miserable for Mother. With his HR smiles and puppydog eyes and lifelong practice in the arts of blaming others for every despicable deed done; ever and always turning his back on those who need him to be someone else.

On me.

I had a dream.

I was picked up at the airport by Mother and Father. We were in the car: Father driving, Mother in the passenger’s seat, and I in the rear. Mother and Father had no details to them; they were silhouettes within the bound of windshield frame, shadows cast upon the background of C-470 – the road not yet Home but close, the gateway between wherever-I-have-been and where-I-belong. Of course, it is a toll road. You can never go home without paying the toll.

Mother: We’re so glad you’re here, Tom.
Now that the three of us are all together, there are Things we must discuss.

Father: Three? There’s no three here. There’s One, and one, and a therapist – and now he’s going to fix you.

I raged, in the dream. My heart was left behind, dropped from the car, skidding on asphalt, pulped beneath tires of passing cars. All that was left was hate. My words spit like acid, demanding to be known by Father as anything but a tool for controlling Mother. Possibly even as myself.

Awake, I don’t even have that much.

I am a stone. Push me from this mountain peak; I will crash into the valley, there to lie and never be moved again.




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