Price: Thanks for keeping me awake nights! XO, J.P.
I sit at my desk and open the book and start to read. It is a little more recognizable than Killer , but not much. After a few pages I feel my limbs getting heavy with fatigue, and I wash up and take the book to bed with me.
At eleven p.m. I realize I have read the fourth page of the book three times and I can no longer stay awake. I close the book and put it on the nightstand and turn off the light and turn into my pillow and in less than a minute I am sleeping like a guilty man.
THINGS PAST
By age thirteen he had begun to seek the refuge of the closet on his own. The Witch was gone more often than not now—sometimes to County, sometimes off with men for days, weeks. He had learned to care for himself in the filthy little house by the freeway. He could have slept on the couch when the Witch was gone, but he didn’t—and he couldn’t even conceive of sleeping in her bed.
He liked the closet now. He was far too big now to sleep on the pile of clothes, even when curled in a fetal position. So he had fashioned a method of piling and folding the grimy couch cushions on the closet floor and against one wall. His head was supported at a comfortable angle so he could gaze at the Angel without even lifting his eyes, his knees raised and propped up by a cushion he had folded into a V and duct-taped to the floor. He would lie there, naked—always naked—and talk and listen and, in the darkness, he would forget the world, forget himself, and go with the Angel to the places from the picture books. Cradled in her arms, touching and being touched, her perfect blue eyes twin North Stars guiding him toward indescribable bliss. The dark place had become Heaven. Because he had made it so.
He never went to school any more. Social Services had forgotten him years ago. He had fallen through every crack of every city, county, state, and federal bureaucracy. Officially, he existed only in a few early school records, in fits and starts. He had no birth certificate, no Social Security number, no medical or dental records.
He had learned to take care of himself quite well as the Witch’s absences increased in length and frequency. He had grown. He had left the house many times and gotten daylight and fresh air. And with the Witch gone, he got regular meals. He taught himself to become an expert shoplifter. He had a natural cunning, which was sharpened by years of maneuvering around the Witch—to bathe, to eat, to move around the house without disturbing her and drawing her wrath. He started by stealing small amounts of produce—anything without a tag or bar code that would set off the security alarms that flanked the automatic doors at the large Ralph’s supermarket six blocks from the house. Then he figured out how to remove the tags and bar codes of other merchandise with a small pair of nail clippers. People were so stupid. So trusting. So easily confused and misdirected. Cattle. The hoofed beasts of the field. A few drops of cooking oil discretely dripped on the floor in front of the busy deli counter, near a towering pyramid of soda or beer or other merchandise, and all he had to do was wait until some bovine shopper would slip and knock over the stacked merchandise and send the security guard, clerks, and managers running to help, to apologize, to clean up. Twice he had walked out during the confusion, pushing a shopping cart brimming with his favorite foods.
He never went hungry. His limbs grew longer and heavier, his mind sharper still. He cut his own hair. He bathed carefully every day, when the Witch wasn’t there, of course. He had no need for companionship, other than the Angel. He never watched television or listened to music. He had stolen a paperback Bible from the book rack at the supermarket. A King James version, just like from the day care. It didn’t have pictures, but he had outgrown the picture books. Besides, the pictures he created with the Angel were far
I sit at my desk and open the book and start to read. It is a little more recognizable than Killer , but not much. After a few pages I feel my limbs getting heavy with fatigue, and I wash up and take the book to bed with me.
At eleven p.m. I realize I have read the fourth page of the book three times and I can no longer stay awake. I close the book and put it on the nightstand and turn off the light and turn into my pillow and in less than a minute I am sleeping like a guilty man.
THINGS PAST
By age thirteen he had begun to seek the refuge of the closet on his own. The Witch was gone more often than not now—sometimes to County, sometimes off with men for days, weeks. He had learned to care for himself in the filthy little house by the freeway. He could have slept on the couch when the Witch was gone, but he didn’t—and he couldn’t even conceive of sleeping in her bed.
He liked the closet now. He was far too big now to sleep on the pile of clothes, even when curled in a fetal position. So he had fashioned a method of piling and folding the grimy couch cushions on the closet floor and against one wall. His head was supported at a comfortable angle so he could gaze at the Angel without even lifting his eyes, his knees raised and propped up by a cushion he had folded into a V and duct-taped to the floor. He would lie there, naked—always naked—and talk and listen and, in the darkness, he would forget the world, forget himself, and go with the Angel to the places from the picture books. Cradled in her arms, touching and being touched, her perfect blue eyes twin North Stars guiding him toward indescribable bliss. The dark place had become Heaven. Because he had made it so.
He never went to school any more. Social Services had forgotten him years ago. He had fallen through every crack of every city, county, state, and federal bureaucracy. Officially, he existed only in a few early school records, in fits and starts. He had no birth certificate, no Social Security number, no medical or dental records.
He had learned to take care of himself quite well as the Witch’s absences increased in length and frequency. He had grown. He had left the house many times and gotten daylight and fresh air. And with the Witch gone, he got regular meals. He taught himself to become an expert shoplifter. He had a natural cunning, which was sharpened by years of maneuvering around the Witch—to bathe, to eat, to move around the house without disturbing her and drawing her wrath. He started by stealing small amounts of produce—anything without a tag or bar code that would set off the security alarms that flanked the automatic doors at the large Ralph’s supermarket six blocks from the house. Then he figured out how to remove the tags and bar codes of other merchandise with a small pair of nail clippers. People were so stupid. So trusting. So easily confused and misdirected. Cattle. The hoofed beasts of the field. A few drops of cooking oil discretely dripped on the floor in front of the busy deli counter, near a towering pyramid of soda or beer or other merchandise, and all he had to do was wait until some bovine shopper would slip and knock over the stacked merchandise and send the security guard, clerks, and managers running to help, to apologize, to clean up. Twice he had walked out during the confusion, pushing a shopping cart brimming with his favorite foods.
He never went hungry. His limbs grew longer and heavier, his mind sharper still. He cut his own hair. He bathed carefully every day, when the Witch wasn’t there, of course. He had no need for companionship, other than the Angel. He never watched television or listened to music. He had stolen a paperback Bible from the book rack at the supermarket. A King James version, just like from the day care. It didn’t have pictures, but he had outgrown the picture books. Besides, the pictures he created with the Angel were far
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