“We were out, Bo and I, when the Prick confronted us. The Prick stood six foot three, and ceaselessly bored those around him with justified pessimism.
October 21st, 1889
It is the night of the acquisition of my father’s estate, Harfeld Manor, which resides in an isolated northern district of Scotland. The home is in utter disrepair, having been relentlessly torn apart by the elements for years on end after my father’s death. I lied in wait, focused on my own collegiate pursuits, neglecting the welfare of the estate much to the dismay of the structure. Now after trying to undo this mistreatment of the estate, day and night the workers hammer away, pounding my eardrums as if they were hammering my skull. I cannot find peace.
On his eyes,
she does not know
calls it the mist beneath her chest
No seeing the mist that lays around her.
“Kenzie, you are a human slug: you feast, you defecate and you sleep. You never get laid, so, rather, I’d place you lower than the slug. Slugs, Kenzie, have managed to survive and adapt in this Darwinian world. I cannot say the same for you.”
"Pigs… actually, make good pets. They’re smart and clean. The image of the swine rolling in the mud isn’t true. Or, it is, but it’s a result of poor maintenance on the human’s part.”
-A conversation with my mother
The first time we met was just a handshake. A “Hi, my name is…” and “Hello, nice to meet you.” There was a spark in your eyes, but nothing else seemed special. You wore regular clothes and said regular things and smiled regularly, with crooked teeth that were a little yellow. I didn’t see you for the rest of the day. I didn’t even know which department you worked in.
The man always stands at a distance. Every day on my walk to the job I see him across the street, staring at me like I’m an experiment. He squints, as if he is waiting for something to change.