Stuck in the scene: you, holding onto me weakly, me, trying to escape, to reach for the remote. But you never let me have it. You never gave in. You’d rather leave bruises on my armbands than give to me a second chance at choice.
My first choice was a mistake, I get that now. But everyone, especially greedy little children-and very especially little spoiled greedy children-will try and get what they want. The thing I did was a little over-the-top, which is, I suppose, why I was never given another choice. But father refused me the one thing I’d ever wanted in life: a shock-shooting typewriter. The kind where, every letter you hit, you get a little shock, so that by the time you finish a word your finger’s tip is numb, and by the time you finish a whole sentence your arm is numb, and he wouldn’t get it for me, said it was dangerous. As if. I didn’t realize the apricot seeds would hurt him so bed, would send him into that place-we-don’t-speak-of. But I still don’t regret what I did: standing up for what I believed I deserved has created me the person I am today.
And you held me there, just held me out of reach of that damn remote. You’d watch the spontaneous -trig channel and the “Aren’t Gods Millionaires?” show, and movies like “My wife turned into my testicles,” when all I asked for was a simple space alien or blood-and-guts type show--like my favorite, “Harry’s in the Bloodbath.”