Even when she flinched at the touch of a probe or a needle on her skin, her thought was always the same. I don’t feel anything.
She knew the rules. She knew she’d broken a couple of them. She knew she was in trouble. She’d just guaranteed herself even less freedom than she’d had before. God, she was stupid.
What my mother didn’t know was how often I wished she’d done as he wanted. I wish I wasn’t even here. I try hard not to be. But she doesn’t appreciate my efforts.
I am haunted by my unfinished works. Every once in awhile, I take out one of those novels I started years ago and never quite finished. Or I finished it but…there’s always a but. It still needed work. It got rejected and I gave up on it. I got tired…