Oh kiss me, Gertrude. It’s been so long since we’ve held one another. How about you yank the bed cover off and we spend time rolling around? We can make smoothies and then share with one another horror stories. You’ll love that, I know.
Here’s my latest horror story–
A nine-year old boy prone toward wearing striped shirts shot his parents in the head. His father kept guns around the house. One of those types that feared everything from intruders to those using the driveway as a turn-around station. When the cops arrived, the boy said nothing. At the station, he just cried. When I got to him, the boy had clearly lost his mind. He licked his lips. Spoke in tongues. Maniacal laughter echoed throughout the interrogation room. The boy needed sedation. Whatever was prescribed to him had no effect. He stared at me, called me his mother yet I’m a man. A new psychologist was assigned to the case.
Months later, the boy visits me in my dreams. He tells me that one day he’ll find me. Gertrude, please hold me. Please assure me that I’m safe from this boy.