Episode 18 — 1979
He says I look like a whore and he doesn’t want whores in his house. He grabs me by the hair & scrubs until all of the makeup is gone.
Or until I start to cry.
So, you understand why I don’t bitch about it when he’s too drunk to remember to come home. Those nights I eat hamburgers, brushing my teeth and scraping my tongue so he won’t smell the meat when he does come home, because “we” don’t eat meat.
When he’s not drunk & I’m not wearing makeup, he still sings & tells me I’m beautiful. I’m not, but that kind of thing is nice to hear. Even when you know it’s not true, it’s nice to hear it said.
They know that, the predators. They know.
I hate the wash cloths. I hate tofu.
Maybe I hated being alone more.
He’s passed out on the living room floor when I get home. Dead drunk, wearing a long red monk’s robe, a blue beret, and a black eye patch—no underpants, no pants pants, no shoes…
Join me on Substack to continue reading, or listen to me narrate the story here
