Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

He’s handsome for someone who is so obviously a demonologist.

I didn’t want the mice in the house, but I never wanted them dead either. I wanted them to move out into a tree stump, where they could dress in aprons and serve each other tea in cute mouse-sized cups.

It just makes me wonder about belief and delusion. What’s the difference there, really? Maybe delusion is an eagerness to believe. A desperation for it.

Why, as a man, wear a slim gold chain if you’re open to commitment? That’s the universal symbol for fuckboy. A chain like that comes with a box of ribbed Trojans and a habit of liking Instagram models’ bikini pics.

Our demons are ours and ours alone. My mother’s demons were hers. Even if she were still here, I couldn’t ever really understand what it was like for her, why she did the things she did. I tried in the wake of her death. A fool’s endeavor. But I have no regrets, because I know now that she wasn’t crazy. I’m not sure anyone is. I think it’s just easier to call someone crazy than it is to admit that they could be right. Easier to call someone crazy than to confront the nuance of their circumstance, than to accept the callous cruelty that exists in the world we live in, the evil out there that revels in our suffering.