They said Larry was a “funny uncle.” I didn’t understand. One night he slipped into my room. What he did wasn’t funny. Not funny at all.
In my porch, underneath the light bulbs my lover insists on, I catch white moths in my hands and set them free. I’m next.
Tearful, she huddled on the center stair. Half-way up? Half-way down? For the first time, it was her choice alone which way to go.
Two stories up, three from the top, she tried to peck out a life for herself one character at a time. Her typewriter would be her freedom.
“He doesn’t mean it,” she says, pushing the bottle to her lips. “He really does love us.” I push the ice pack against my swollen eyes.
She noticed the row of frosting-laced cupcakes in the fridge. They were gorgeous. Like every year, nobody had showed up for her party.