My grandmother’s garden always smelled of vanilla Ice-Cream Shrubs; Yesterday, Today and Tomorrows; and lemon Pelargoniums—especially after the rain. The moss-covered paving would be slippery, and the dark sand in the flowerbeds would turn to mud. The moisture in the air refined the potpourri-like smells, reminding me of a funeral parlour.
I would sneak about, touching the wet leaves and sniffing the scents on my fingertips. I was small enough to hide behind the boundary wall that enclosed the front garden, running parallel to the street. The wall would chop your view of an adult in half, but from my low height, I could see through the thin gaps in-between the stone slabs. I would press my palms and one cheek against the cold stone, peering through the sliver of light with one eye. This allowed me a protected view of the house across the road.
On early mornings, I would see the milkman making his delivery. He would place a full, glass milk bottle on Mr. Visconti’s doorstep and collect the empty one that had been left there the night before. Mr. Visconti, or “Conti,” as my grandmother affectionately labelled him, would never be seen. I had never seen his wife, either. Apparently, she had abandoned Conti and their daughter a long time ago.
My grandmother said that Conti had rat-tail white hair combed across his bald head; it would splay out at his ears. Apparently his head was the shape of an upside-down triangle. She also said that his spectacles were thick brown frames with frosted lenses. “They cover most of his scrawny face,” she would say. “And the bristly patch of hair on his chin… My God, don’t get me started.”
But I didn’t get her started. She got me started. I was haunted by the idea of Conti. My mind would be flooded with contrived images of him when I was in bed at night. Because I had never seen him, and because he never left his house, he was the stuff of nightmares to me—a living ghost, a reclusive apparition. My grandmother said that he read palms, too. He fancied himself a tarot-card clairvoyant. What a spook.
I digress—back to Mr. Visconti’s doorstep. Once the milkman had made his presence known, a shadow would darken the entrance hall. A small circular bulb would flicker to life above the lintel. The front door would open ever so slightly, and never completely. A shadow would emerge from the house briefly, revealing itself to be Mr. Visconti’s daughter. She would appear wearing an oversized t-shirt and nothing else. Her smooth, dairy-coloured legs announced her arrival. Her delicate arms would reach for the bottle. Her long fingers would grip the neck covered in condensation. She would smile politely at the milkman and turn on her toes. She disappeared as quickly as she came, her slender feet vanishing last. That was when I knew I had to kill her.
‘Kill’ is a doleful word. It leaves a vile taste in our mouths, like licking a bar of soap. Neanderthals ‘kill’ their prey. Troubled children ‘kill’ their pets. The demented ‘kill’ themselves. We are not simpletons. We are not butchers. We are not loons.
He uses the word ‘kill’ for your sake. We prefer to use the word ‘preserve’. We shall preserve Visconti’s daughter. She is a work of fine art, surrounded by disorder, but we shall make sure that she takes her place in the Great Museum of the beyond. The eternal glass box will separate her from the hoards who have no idea how to handle her, let alone understand her.
“But he is just a child,” you might say to us. Perhaps we inhabit the body of a child, yet we are the souls of ancients, the essence of ones who have lived many lives across many times, spanning many worlds. What would you know of such things? Of course you would mistake the body of a child for something without use or expertise. On the contrary, children are perfect vessels of preservation.
Sometimes my head gets cloudy. I forget where I am and what I was doing.
Because my grandmother only cares for stories about Mr. Visconti, I would need to gather information about his daughter myself. I have tried to ask my grandmother about her before, but she would wave her wrinkled hand at me and shoo me away. “Why do you care?” she would say in her shrill voice. “You’re too young for girls. Now go play outside.” She didn’t care for questions, so I learnt not to care about asking. Nevertheless, to know more about Mr. Visconti’s daughter meant that I would need to get closer to her.
The shelter was just big enough to protect a few people from the rain. There were three plastic walls covered in cheap advertisements. No one dared look at the pretentious smiles of the plastic people with tile-white teeth trying to sell toothpaste. The fourth wall was left open to the street. Myself and two others pressed ourselves against the inside back wall. The raindrops broke on the pavement and streamed down the gutter into a nearby drain. As the water gurgled out of sight, the bus approached.
The old diesel engine groaned with the lowering of its gears. Metal tore into metal, signalling that the breaks had been engaged. It made a terrible, other-worldly sound. The rectangular hunk resembled an ammunition box on wheels. The body of the thing was rusted at the corners, and the windows were misted over.
As I stepped from the curb onto the bus, I caught a glimpse of my grandmother’s house a few blocks down. I realised that my clothes were already soaked through and my shoes were squeaking on the ground. I had to blend in. No one need know that I walked a few blocks in the rain, only to catch a bus back past my place of residence—especially Mr. Visconti’s daughter.
I handed the driver my coins and found a seat at the back of the bus. I had a good view of the other passengers from here. The doors closed and the bus shuddered into action, only to pause outside Mr. Visconti’s house a minute later. I sank low into my seat. The baseball cap that I had tucked into the waist of my jeans dug into my skin. I lifted my top quickly and placed the blue hat on my head, shielding my face with the peak. The bus trembled, and its rickety joints vibrated violently as it idled. My peripheral vision allowed me to see Mr. Visconti’s daughter glide down the steps of her house and make her way onto the bus. She paid her fare and chose a seat near the front. As the doors hissed closed again, I got up and walked briskly toward the front. I half-hopped, half-jumped into an aisle seat two rows behind her on the opposite side. I had a clear view of Mr. Visconti’s daughter, and she was none the wiser.
Her mousy-brown hair hung down to her hips. It gleamed in the reflected light from the clouds and headlights. Her arms were covered today. I suppose it was due to the weather. Her knitted jersey clung tightly to her form, accentuating her small breasts. She wore a green dress beneath the jersey. Sheer pantyhose covered her legs and disappeared into leather ankle boots. She sat uneasily on her chair and looked out of the window to her left.
The bus made a few stops, passengers entered and exited, but Mr. Visconti’s daughter sat unmoved. Her gaze never shifted from the window. She seemed to be settled into what would be a long journey. The lack of knowledge concerning her destination didn’t bother me as much as not knowing her name. But for now, just being able to see her was enough. It was thrilling to be this close to her. There was usually a tarmac gulf between the two of us.
After a while, I noticed the bus was following the ‘Public Library’ signs. I also noticed the cold setting in through my wet clothes. Mr. Visconti’s daughter rose to her feet and pressed the ‘driver stop’ button above her head. She had a book clutched under her armpit and a heavy-looking bag slung over her shoulder. My heart beat into action, pulsating blood throughout my body. I got up, realised my silly impulse, and sat back down. She hadn’t noticed. The driver pulled the bus over. I had guessed correctly. The public library stood eerily across the road. The trees on the sidewalk were whipping around in the wind. I could hear the gale whistling between the pillars as it made its way down the street. While I had been taking in the view, Mr. Visconti’s daughter was already crossing the road, with her hand shielding her eyes from the downpour. I jumped back to my feet and rushed out of the swinging doors.
The library smelled of old wood and floor polish. The bookshelves formed a sort of semi-circle, with desks filling the concave space. Mr. Visconti’s daughter sat hunched over a table scattered with books. She was scribbling furiously and turning pages with intent. She knew why she was there. I, on the other hand, was bumbling through my day. I circumnavigated her and stood behind a shelf with a broken view of her. I grabbed a book on human anatomy, in case I had to perform a convincing charade. I opened the book to the female reproductive system and felt strange. I turned a few more pages, settling on the digestive system.
After a few minutes and some nervousness on my part, a loud group of teenagers entered. They were laughing and shoving one another around. The alpha of the group grabbed the boy next to him by the shirt and whispered something in his ear. He pointed to Mr. Visconti’s daughter. The two quietened down and looked around. They made a beeline for her, and I moved to get a better view of the situation. The alpha ambushed Mr. Visconti’s daughter and slammed the book in her hands shut. The smaller boy threw some to the floor. The alpha went on to knock over the water cup on her table, spilling it onto her notes. They laughed and nudged her with their elbows as they walked off to sit at another desk. Mr. Visconti’s daughter was in tears. She got up and ran past me with her hands over her face. She nearly bundled me over, but I was able to side-step out of her way. She disappeared into the doorway with the bathroom sign above it.
I was frozen on the spot for a second, but my heart kicked me into action for the second time that day. I walked over to her table and cleaned up as best I could. I used my baseball cap to wipe up the water. I squeezed it out and wiped the chair. I neatened the books—and then I saw it. Her library card was wedged in some pages as a place keeper. I slid it out and turned it over in my hands a few times. I could smell her fragrance on the plastic. I flipped it over and read the card. Giulia Visconti.
That was when I felt the shove from behind. I slammed into the table in front of me, dropping the card. I turned to see the alpha standing over me.
“What are you doing fuckwit?” His face was red and his eyes were small. “Are you her fucking boyfriend or something?” I didn’t know what to say. He peeled me off of the desk and raised me to my feet. He was a head taller than me and much broader. “Well, are you her fucking boyfriend or what? Or are you a dumby? Can’t you speak?” He made strange noises with his mouth, implying that I was mentally ill. His friends laughed. “You look too young to be her boyfriend, anyway. So you’re a pervert, then. I get it. Where are your parents, kid? I think we need to have a little chat with them.” He wagged his finger at me to more cheering and applause from his cronies. He looked pleased with himself.
“I don’t have parents.”
“Of course you have parents. Everyone has parents, numbskull.” He paused.
Giulia Visconti was back from the bathroom. Her eyes were pink and puffy. She sprinted toward us, ramming her shoulder into my assailant. Both he and I staggered into the desk. As I steadied myself, the librarian on duty was making her way over. People at the other tables were starting to point and stare. I felt my face growing hotter. I was worried that I would soon be discovered.
“I caught your boyfriend cleaning up after you.” He laughed insipidly. He reached for Giulia. I instinctively grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. He swivelled and flattened me with a punch to the jaw. As I lay on my back, the lights seemed to blur on the ceiling. My head filled with noise and confusion. I blinked slowly and faces appeared to hover above me.
There are beings on planets you can’t yet see, and there are beings on ones you can see but will never visit, because your meagre bodies don’t allow for it. On all of those planets, there exist outcasts, beings alienated from their own kind. They are unpopular at school, they don’t understand popular culture, they don’t take popular jobs, and they don’t get invited to dinners or parties or dates. These beings are of no interest to you because you can’t use them, but to us they are perfect. They are worthy of preservation.
There exists a plain—one far from your telescopes, beyond your space-time—where those perfect beings are preserved. They are allowed to reach their full potential in each other’s company, unbridled by your abusive yolks. In this plain, they are able to respect each other, regardless of form or function, regardless of species or origin.
We call this plain the Great Museum. This is where we take the preserved when they have left their planet behind. They are maintained here forever, the pinnacle of their kind. You might be surprised to know that they evolve here, unhampered by bigotry, ridicule, and oppression. They flourish, long after you have forgotten them. They become boundless, quantum, ethereal—able to pop in and out of existence, able to visit many worlds across many epochs. They are able to take many forms, forms in which they will preserve others, just as they have been preserved. They become the Great Museum, and they are their own curators. They will enjoy each other forever, long after you are gone. You, the assailants, the aggressors, the popular, will be eternally forgotten. May you rot in the cage of your limited understanding.
I woke up in my bed. My head was pounding, and it hurt to open my mouth. My grandmother was fussing around in my room. I couldn’t tell if she was tidying or just moving things around. I hate it when she does that. She saw me stirring and walked off. She returned with a cup of tea, another thing I don’t like. She placed it on my bedside table and left my room. I couldn’t remember how I got home. I’m not sure if someone brought me back here, or if my grandmother came to fetch me from the library. Then it sank in. Oh, God. Did Giulia Visconti know who I was? Did she know that I was following her? I felt sick to my stomach. I rolled over in bed to escape the embarrassment, and hopefully the pain.
I always knew that Giulia was too good for this world. She suffered at the hands of those bullies, and that clearly wasn’t the first time. How many more times would she suffer at the hands of people who didn’t care to understand her? A year from now—ten years from now—she would always be a target for the abusers of this world. I could save her from all of that. I could spare her from being violated further. Her death would be a kindness.
A few hours later, my grandmother woke me up and informed me that we would be visiting the doctor. I begged her not to take me. I was humiliated enough as it was. She shushed me, and said that my face was as swollen as a baboon’s buttocks. She said that I needed to be checked for “grievous bodily harm”.
The waiting room at the hospital was as you’d expect. We sat on sun-dulled sofas where the pink suede had turned to the colour of sick. The bamboo tables were littered with outdated magazines. There were toy boxes for toddlers packed with flimsy plastic goodies and dusty teddy bears. If disease hadn’t been brought in, it was sure to be found in here. The only saving grace was the overly polished floor. It reflected the lights on the ceiling. I counted the number of patients that were seen before us, despite the fact that we had arrived before them. Seven, no word of a lie. Seven were seen before us. The boredom slowly overtook the pain in my jaw, and my grandmother had given up pretending to read the substandard journalism on offer. Not even the nature photographs were enough to sustain her. She sighed and muttered to herself.
Eventually, an older man—that is to say, much older than me—ambled out. He was probably younger than my grandmother, however. He walked like his back hurt. He took a file from the secretary’s desk and peered over his spectacles, into the waiting room, as he read it aloud. “Balti,” he said. I jumped to my feet out of sheer delight.
“Present,” I responded with my hand held high. My grandmother got to her feet slowly. The doctor flicked his spectacles into place without using his hands and turned to walk down the passage without waiting for us to catch up. He stood at the door to his office with his hand extended in invitation. He wore faded leather shoes, tan chinos, and a checkered shirt. As we passed him, I could smell his cologne mixed with disinfectant. We sat down on the chairs provided as he closed the door and moved around the desk.
“What can I do for you today, madam?” He looked at my grandmother. He hadn’t seemed to notice my swollen face and blackened eye socket. My grandmother explained that we were here for me, expounding on the incident that led to my injuries. She said that I had tried to assist a helpless girl and got my lights punched out for my efforts. She wasn’t completely wrong.
The doctor shifted his eyes to me and jerked his head back in surprise. “Well, young man, you are indeed injured. Please sit on the bed behind you and I’ll take a closer look.” I did as he asked. He put on rubber gloves and examined my jaw. He turned my head left and right with his fingers on my chin. He asked me to open and shut my mouth. “Good,” he said. He gently spread my swollen eyelid open and shone a light into my eye. He seemed pleased by my pupil’s response. “Very good.” He asked me to lift my shirt as he placed the stethoscope onto my chest. My skin reacted to the contact. I breathed in deeply as he moved it around with precision. He was close enough for me to notice his black nose hair and deep pores. “Any headaches or spells of confusion?”
“Yes, doctor.”
He nodded his head slowly. “Alright. You can take your seat again, son.” I slid my shirt down and sat next to my grandmother. He removed his gloves and washed his hands in the adjacent basin. He took his seat and interlocked his fingers, tapping his thumbs together. His spectacles were on the bridge of his nose again. He spoke directly to my grandmother. “Well, his jaw is swollen, as we all know. There is significant bruising around the left eye, too. There is no suggestion of dislocation or fracture. He seems to be mildly concussed, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. Just keep an eye on him for the next few days. I will prescribe painkillers and anti-inflammatories. The painkillers are to be taken after meals. Do not exceed the daily limit of six tablets,, as they are opiate in nature, which can be addictive to some. The anti-inflammatories can be taken three times daily until the swelling subsides.” My grandmother nodded, as did I. “Please do not be alarmed, but I must enquire as to your family situation, madam.” He looked directly into my grandmother’s eyes with some authority. “This is standard practice in the case of a minor with physical injuries.” He seemed to search her for weakness. “You are the boy’s mother?” He looked at the file on the desk in front of him as she answered.
“No, I am his grandmother. He lives with me. I look after him. But I thought you people knew that?”
He seemed pleased with that. “Yes, madam. I am aware. But I must enquire, you see.” He smiled politely as he made a mark in the file. “Do the boy’s parents visit him?”
“No.”
“I see.” He made another mark. “And do you reprimand the boy physically?”
“No, sir. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation. I look after him to the best of my ability and means. Put that in your file.” She banged her finger on the desk repeatedly.
He nodded and made his last mark in the file. “Thank you, madam. I hope you understand that these questions are legally necessary. I apologise for the frankness. There is one last step before I can let you go. I must ask that you check in with the hospital social worker. This, too, is mandatory. I trust that you understand.”
My grandmother looked agitated, but she agreed. “Yes, yes. It’s the same thing every time. I took this on when I adopted Alessandro, I suppose.”
“Your last visit was roughly six years ago.” He pointed to the file. “We just need to make sure that he is still doing well.” The doctor seemed to lighten his tone now.
“Well, you people never cared to check in with us over that period. Only now that we are here in front of you, you care.” She shook her head. “Nevertheless, let’s get on with it so we can go home and get something to eat. We’ve been here all day.”
“I will call the social worker down for you. You need not go anywhere else.” The doctor picked up his phone and uncoiled the wire as he asked his secretary to call the social worker down to his office. We waited in palpable silence for a few minutes until the phone rang. The doctor lifted it from the receiver with finesse. “Thank you. Send her in, please.”
He got up and asked my grandmother to accompany him outside, as the social worker would want to chat to me alone. She got up and exited the room. They left the door open and paused in the hallway. They were no longer in view. I heard the doctor introduce my grandmother to the social worker. I turned to face the desk and saw my open file. I spun it around quickly without hesitation. My eyes flashed across the page.
“ALESSANDRO BALTI. FATHER: deceased. MOTHER: Diagnosed schizophrenic. Delusions of grandeur. Audible hallucinations (that was underlined). Incredibly intelligent. Above-average IQ. Socially maladapted. Substance abuser. Location unknown. GRANDMOTHER: Primary caregiver. Adopted the child at two years of age…” I swallowed loudly. That was the most I had ever read or heard about my parents.
The conversation in the hallway was coming to end. I spun the file around to face the empty chair and sat back in my own. My heart was pounding. I tried to steady my breathing. The door shut behind me as high heels clip-clopped on the floor toward the desk. I didn’t turn around. The social worker appeared wearing a matching purple outfit. Her heels, three-quarter dress, and blazer with shoulder pads were clearly planned. I liked that. Her tight bob of hair was neat and clean, albeit severe. She sat down with an enormous smile on her face. “Hello, Alessandro. My name is Gabriella.”
I smiled back. It hurt to do so. She read my file swiftly as I waited. She asked the same questions as the doctor, essentially, making marks as she went. She added one more question, however. She asked if I was happy, or sad a lot. I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I hadn’t ever thought about it. I felt overwhelming grief surface in my throat, threatening to erupt in tears. I swallowed it back down. I knew where that would get me. “I am happy, thank you.”
“Good. Good.” She nodded and smiled some more. “Well, I hope your jaw heals well. And if you ever need help, you just let me know. Here is my phone number.” She handed me a business card. It was white and full of blue text. Her number was at the bottom. I thanked her again and pocketed the card. She accompanied me out of the office. My grandmother was waiting for me in the hallway. She took my hand and led me away. That was the first time she had ever done so. We made a stop at the dispensary on the way out for my medication.
In the halls of the Great Museum, there is no paper and no judgement. We have no labels for beings. We have no titles for their thought-life. And we are not in control of what they are becoming. Their development is their own. Their thoughts are their own. Their actions are their own. They are not policed or spoon-fed. Their only charge is to choose others to join our kind.
There is no authority because there are no family lines, no generational traces and, therefore, no parental figures. Make no mistake, this is not an orphanage. This is not a home for the abandoned, but rather a cathedral for the cherished. Here, the preserved are rewarded for their being, for their existence, and not for their achievements, or lack thereof. This is no religious heaven. This is no penitentiary for the damned. This is the preservation of the perfect.
Remember the mission. Remember, not for reward, but for expedience. Wake from your slumber. Wake from your dreams and live in our reality. Let us teach you. Let us become you, as you become us. Let us be one in body, soul, and mind. Let us conquer the depraved and, in so doing, uplift the downtrodden. Let us liberate her from suffering. Let us poison her. Let us preserve her.
The fogginess of the last few days wore off suddenly. I had been sitting on the park bench for a while. I think I may have fallen asleep in the warmth of the sun. Regardless, I had clarity of mind for the first time in a long while. I had been reading a book in order to disguise my glances of Giulia Visconti. Strange, lonely, perfect Giulia. She was sitting amongst the white daisies across the footpath that divided the park in two. She was also reading—perhaps with more purpose than me.
I stole another look. Bees were pollinating the little flowers around her. A slight breeze ruffled the petals, along with her skirt. The fabric seemed to brush the grass with care. The colourful floral pattern on her skirt was highlighted by the white flowers. When Giulia stirred again, I sunk my head into my book. There were others going about their business in the park as well. We were not alone.
Fortunately, the mind is always a place of solitude and sanctuary. The doctor had given me my plan in his office. I dug in my pocket and pulled out the white cardboard box of painkillers. I examined the box, turning it over in my hands. There was a warning not to exceed the daily dosage. One was to seek immediate medical assistance if overdose occurred. I opened the box and crinkled the plastic that housed the capsules. They would be easy enough to break open. I would empty all the capsules into the milk bottle that was delivered to Mr. Visconti the next morning. They only trick was to intercept the bottle before it touched the doorstep. The milk would be so concentrated with prescription opiates that a small amount added to breakfast cereal would surely be lethal. And if one were to ingest a glass of the stuff, it would be more than enough.
I looked up with the capsules still in my hand. Giulia locked eyes with me across the park. My heart jumped in my chest. Does she know? My heart sank. She must know! I dropped the sheet of capsules. I fumbled around for it in the dirt and shoved it into my pocket, along with the box. She was still looking at me. I shut the book on the bench with too much force and walked off in the opposite direction.
We will give you strength. We are with you always. We are one. Take heart, beloved.
I couldn’t remember how I got home. They say that can happen when things are second nature to you, like driving a car or cycling to work. I know that I felt better. I went to bed before the sun had vanished. I set the alarm on my wrist watch for 4:30AM. I lay in bed concocting my story for the milkman tomorrow, and I accepted that I would not see the glorious event take place. My sleep was far from deep. I tossed and turned most of the night, in anticipation for my early start.
I was ready when my alarm sounded the next day. I put on my smartest shirt and pressed trousers. I made sure that my shoes were shined. I also sprayed my shirt with some of my late grandfather’s cologne. I told my grandmother that I would be formally introducing myself to Giulia Visconti today. She saw it as a starry-eyed gesture. It is easy to fool a hopeless romantic. For an extra touch of believability, I asked my grandmother to stand at the window and wave when I waved to her from the street. I explained that it would be helpful for Giulia to know that I wasn’t some unknown entity, but rather the boy from across the road, as confirmed by her wave. Before I ventured out into the crisp morning, I opened all of the painkiller capsules on my bed and emptied the powder into a pocket-sized container.
My grandmother’s garden was as splendid as ever. The smells greeted me first. The dew on the leaves made them sparkle like decorations. I breathed in deeply and crossed the street. I waited on the sidewalk outside Mr. Visconti’s house with my hands behind my back. I nodded at my grandmother in the window. She nodded in return.
When the milkman arrived on his bicycle, I was quick to greet him. I explained that Mr. Visconti and his lovely daughter were out of town, and they had asked me to collect their milk for them. Me, being their opposite neighbour, of course. I handed him the empty bottle from the day before, and I promised that I would return the new bottle tomorrow. He seemed to question the gesture in his mind. I pointed to my grandmother at the window and waved. He saw her waving to us and politely responded in kind. I said that he was welcome to ask her if he didn’t believe me. That seemed to settle it. He reluctantly handed me the full milk bottle and cycled off. Bless my grandmother and her naivety.
I turned to face Mr. Visconti’s doorstep, concealing the bottle from my grandmother’s view. I drew the container subtly from my pocket and emptied the contents into the milk bottle. I held it by the neck and gave it a swirl.
I walked up the few steps in front of me. I stretched out my fist to knock on the door, but it opened before my knuckles made contact with the wood. Giulia Visconti confronted me in her oversized t-shirt. She was barefoot, and her nails were painted a pastel green. I looked up and saw that her face was contorted with rage.
“I saw what you did. What did you put in my milk?” Her hands were planted firmly on her hips.
“I…”
“And I know that you’ve been following me, you creep. How stupid do you think I am? I didn’t say anything because you helped me in the library with those idiotic kids.”
“I…”
“But I’ve had it. What’s your obsession with me? What are you trying to do? I saw you put something in that milk.” She pointed at the bottle in my hand. “Are you insane or something?”
I was trembling now. I turned to face my grandmother and waved. She waved back, with a concerned look on her face. I looked into Giulia Visconti’s eyes and apologised. I downed the bottle of milk and slumped on the step.
It finally sank in. It wasn’t her who was suffering and in need of salvation. It wasn’t her who needed help. It wasn’t her who needed to be preserved. It was me. I remembered the social worker’s file and the underlined words. The voices weren’t real. I’m the lost cause. I’m the sad boy. And I’m insane, just like my mother.
My eyes closed as a great weight lifted.