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cars. She finally brought it to my responsibility, that I'd caused her failing memory as the years passed; for the way she really felt, and in some ways, how she couldn't control herself. It was never a matter of control as much as it was of fear of my trembling satisfactorily under those tremoring, dilated eyes. She longed rather, to release some sort of instinct that was learned deep inside her mind and body. She realized what it was; she did nothing to stop what wasn't wrong.

At night, with my back against the door, curled up in a heap, a blue and white blanket covered in footprints warmed my lap. My arms hugged my own shivering shoulders, or limply lay at my sides, making fists in the regurgitation-brown carpet, catching my blood on the sleeves. My eyes often closed to sleep, and my dreams went to other places far away, where I could be grown-up, and big enough to fight her. Tomorrow was always a long sleeve day, my hair pulled high and wrapped around just so, to hide my ears and neck, the bloodspots and bruises. Tomorrow was always the day of sitting at the edge of my chair to ease my back and remedy the metal-sharp strings of pain streaming from my shoulder blades to the bottom of my spine. The days when I stayed away, taking hours to walk two miles home.

"At least I can remember what happens in the world around me!"

It was the first time in years she'd really, truly heard my voice. I realize it had strength, a lack of pain, and an intention to hurt. She knew it, and I was even shocked by my own words. All these times I hadn't fought back, I'd been contemplating those words in hundreds of forms, and ways, yet I never said anything. Now my voice was without a single change in timbre, or a quivering of my vocal cords outside of ringing intentions to speak my mind. I wasn't sure I'd spoken what I had, there was no movement on either of our parts, and I suppose her inaction spurred me to believe it wasn't one of the moments in life that my voice had hiccupped into the world and I couldn't quite grasp the reality of it. Her drug induced state relieved her for a moment, and clarity flashed through the grey haze of blue gel-coated anti-reality. She understood unsurprised, and she began to cry; a high monster with those demonic hands began to cry. I won, but only that time. I hit her, without my arms, with a statement that summed her pointless lifethrough someone too young to have to understand.

And yet, after some internal deliberation, I still have yet to genuinely

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