Head Like a Hole

by Andrew Van Wey

People want to be heard, especially when they’ve been misheard, misquoted, and misunderstood. It’s why we relive old arguments in the shower until we’ve won.

Now here he stood, yesterday’s specter, his tired face a reflection of her own.

Over the years she had armored herself with a disdain for the openly joyful. She made it a habit to never smile for a photo. She shrugged often and echoed Bart Simpson’s “whatever.” If she wasn’t outwardly happy, she could never be hurt.

And like that, she was gone. A reminder of all the good he had broken.

Was this how madness happened? First slowly and then all at once?

I like to think we’re the sum total of all those who helped us or hurt us or simply shared our life for a moment.