Because I can’t say anything nice about her. I can’t say anything nice to her. I can barely even look the woman in the eye. When I do, it gets hard to breathe. It gets hot, even if it’s freezing cold out. And suddenly, I feel like I’m ten years old again, on the last good day of my life, unwrapping the last Christmas present I’d ever get from my mother before she’s dead from the final bang of heroin that killed her, and I’m left alone in a ghetto brothel in southeast Saint Petersburg with nothing but a new toy drum and the clothes on my back.
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