He has tied my hands together, tightly, this time. They rest, crossed at the wrists on my lap. My ankles are tied to the chair legs, which is perhaps for the best, as I would now claw through my own skin if it were possible.
This is oddly, exactly the kind of punishment I deserve. I'm the type of kid who scratches at ALL my bug bites until they become scabs and then pulls off the scabs until they become bigger and bigger. Like they are the tops of tupperware lids, you just have to find the proper handle to open them.
I asked him to leave the light on, and he does so, kindly, knowing that I am afraid of the dark. Even with a blindfold on, it is nice to know that the light is on. Somehow it keeps away the monsters.
I really don't mind this, although I know I probably should. With a blindfold on, I imagine that I am in a cathedral. Or even in Henry's hut at Walden Pond. I can sit for hours composing my own genius novel, but somehow, when I get to an actual paper and pen, I seem to disappoint myself.
Blindfolded and tied up, I offer myself the most incredible dreams. I go somewhere beautiful. The noise of an acorn falling on the tin shed brings me to a squirrel who did it on purpose and maybe the tree he's trying to get even with. Or maybe it's God. Or a bullet casing from a war in the deepest jungle. Or maybe it's just an acorn shell falling on the roof of a tin house that has a little girl tied up inside who is waiting for her brother to come find and release her.
This is oddly, exactly the kind of punishment I deserve. I'm the type of kid who scratches at ALL my bug bites until they become scabs and then pulls off the scabs until they become bigger and bigger. Like they are the tops of tupperware lids, you just have to find the proper handle to open them.
I asked him to leave the light on, and he does so, kindly, knowing that I am afraid of the dark. Even with a blindfold on, it is nice to know that the light is on. Somehow it keeps away the monsters.
I really don't mind this, although I know I probably should. With a blindfold on, I imagine that I am in a cathedral. Or even in Henry's hut at Walden Pond. I can sit for hours composing my own genius novel, but somehow, when I get to an actual paper and pen, I seem to disappoint myself.
Blindfolded and tied up, I offer myself the most incredible dreams. I go somewhere beautiful. The noise of an acorn falling on the tin shed brings me to a squirrel who did it on purpose and maybe the tree he's trying to get even with. Or maybe it's God. Or a bullet casing from a war in the deepest jungle. Or maybe it's just an acorn shell falling on the roof of a tin house that has a little girl tied up inside who is waiting for her brother to come find and release her.
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