Killing our mother? There has to be another way. I walk to the restaurant unable to stop myself from imagining how it would happen. Our mother screaming. The two of us on her. Hurting her. I close my eyes. Physically jolt against the images. I feel weak for it. Knowing how she’s hurt me, and he’s hurt you, and they’ve hurt us. Because it’s all the same, isn’t it? When one of us is hurt, we both are. You’re me and I’m you. I’m weak because I couldn’t protect you. Even weaker because I can’t give you what you want now.
