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New York City seemed to enjoy keeping intimate details about the Deptford a secret.
Ruben and 7 other people liked this
The awful truth is that you hate your daughter and wish she’d never been born.
A garden of resentment was sown that day. Its hideous plants bloomed at irregular, unpredictable intervals. A sprig of hate. A blossom of blame. Entire teeming hedgerows of depression and alienation.
Iva Nikolli and 5 other people liked this
Adulthood was all about compromises, wasn’t it? You decide what you need, what you want, and shift your priorities around until you find the least bad combination. Each compromise was a link in a chain, and if that chain dragged you down to the bottom of the East River? Well … at least you had Netflix and Spotify to distract you while you sank.
He didn’t know where he was going, he just had to get far away from that fucking cruel pantomime of normalcy, that filthy blood-caked fist which had wrenched into his hair, rubbing his nose in a life that would never be his.
In a flash of movement too fast for Bizzie to comprehend, she dropped to her hands and knees and began drinking the puddle of vomit up from the floor. She made greedy, delighted noises.
Ummm. What is happening?
Then she turned Charlie around so she was facing out toward the city, and in a graceful underhand, she threw Charlie off the roof of the Deptford.
I did not see that coming
Right. Scared of you, her mother’s voice whispered in her head. The cripple literally butt-skipping down the stairs at the rate of one flight an hour. Real intimidating.
A wall of flesh. An enormous, bloated mass of skin—not stretched taut like a canvas but thick, full of organs and blood and life. An organic mass. A comfortable mass.
His body seemed different now, though. Hollower. Deflated. Not just because of death but like … … like he’d been emptied.
What does it mean to be a mother? But that was the trick. There was no one meaning.
Motherhood was breakage, was expansion, was depletion, was fulfillment, was creation, and an endless series of goodbyes. Motherhood was contradiction. That was its beauty.
