I’d probably want to pluck out my own eyes, to stop looking, to stop seeing all the time.
The things I’ve seen cannot be unseen. The things I’ve done cannot be undone.
Think about something nice, one of my foster parents would say when I couldn’t sleep,
or on nights when I woke up sweating, sobbing, screaming.
Trite advice, but occasionally effective. So I thought about Pilot the dog.
I suppose I must have slept—it seems impossible that I wouldn’t have dropped off for at least a moment or two—
but it didn’t feel like it. Sundays are dead days.
I try to sleep as long as possible to pass the time (an old prison trick, apparently—thank you for the tip, Mummy)
but on summer mornings, it can be difficult. When the phone rang just after ten, I’d been up for hours.
I’d cleaned the bathroom and washed the kitchen floor, taken out the recycling and arranged all the tins in the cupboard
so that the labels were facing forward in zetabetical order.
I’d polished both pairs of shoes. I’d read the newspaper and completed all the crosswords and puzzles.
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