On September 11th of this year, we drove our thirteen-year-old daughter to a boarding school for children with learning differences.
It was the second-worst day in memory. The first was when she was three months old and the pediatrician told me she had fragile X syndrome . . .
I started by speed walking, then high-stepping, then flat-out mad dashing. I knew that my increasing anger was irrational.
Really, if you leave twenty bucks and a crackhead alone in your room, it’s your own damn fault! . . .
The ice pick hung there on a nail. I grabbed it—Ricky was going down. I told that fucking idiot not to leave anything behind. He knew . . .
Potty training is a bitch. It should be easy, right? How hard could it actually be? . . .
The witch had seen this same look in a mother’s eye before when such a request was made.
Read Mouths Don’t Speak author Katia D. Ulysse’s tribute to David Bowie.
“We are not descended from fearful men,” the box filled with wires and lights says to her as she sits, waiting, on the anniversary. She stares into its eyes. This is the sign . . .
She brushed her hair, watching her hazel eyes, her wide lips, and her creamy dark complexion. The card lay on the vanity: John P. Fletcher. She put on the white dress she had laid out on her bed. She opened her purse, slid in the compact Ruger, silver with a black handgrip, and walked slowly to the corner . . .