Fourth In Line

 

I grew up with this image of St. Sebastian, and his arrows have pierced my body from the day I realized I'd never be normal, enjoy my own lovers instead of your husbands, or take what was once a healthy admiration for a managerial peer like Linda Dezenski, about whom I haven't written in quite a while, and turn it into blind panic in misconstrued complicity. I only have one further footnote on her, which will be dealt out later, given that CIL culture has been shown to be so irrelevant, the question remains as to why I broke down about it at all, in prudish, threatened anxiety. I never truly recovered from it. I fought Trudy Richardson into a travesty of stillbirth to make a clean break, and now the only march to the drummer's beat is you need services. I will make them kill me first, before I give into this, that I must comply and die at the hands of nigger attendance to age and waste, bodily fluids, just another statistic. Say goodbye to Kimmy. She was a brave little girl, bravest female I ever raised and swear I thought she was healthy, and had another five years. She never complained until the needle was injected, the pentothal following. Would that it had been me.