Maybe we needed to give shape to the opaque, deep-down pain that evades both sense and senses.
For a moment, you think you’re better.
You’ve just had a successful train of thought, with an engine and a caboose and everything.
Your thoughts. Authored by you.
And then you feel a wave of nausea, a fist clenching from within your rib cage,
cold sweat hot forehead you’ve got it it’s already inside of you crowding out everything else
taking you over and it’s going to kill you and eat its way out of you
and then in a small voice, half strangled by the ineffable horror, you barely squeeze out the words you need to say.
“I’m in trouble, Mom. Big trouble.”
TWENTY-ONE
THE ARC OF THE STORY GOES LIKE THIS: Having descended into proper madness,
I begin to make the connections that crack open the long-dormant case of Russell Pickett’s disappearance.
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