August 22, 2001
The fountain chic at work gave me a ride home when Thomas didn’t show up to get me after my shift. Guess I wasn’t going to be passing out fliers. I pushed open the front door and noticed scattered sheets of paper strewn all over the living room. Not just sheets of paper. Book pages. They blanketed the floor, the couch, the coffee table. I picked up a page and read… “Maybe this is madness. Maybe this is what hell is. You go mad. And all of your demons come and get you as fast as you can think them up.”
I screamed. A long guttural howl not giving a damn if the neighbors heard. The precious pages of my Memnoch the Devil by Anne Rice had been savagely ripped from the binding. I balled up the piece of paper tight in my fist, eyes watering in blind rage. My favorite book. My favorite possession out of all the shit in this godforsaken trailer. He is my demon. And I could bear him no longer.
I blew through the tattered pages littered around me while focusing my sight on his babies. His loves. I flipped through them one by one inhaling the smell of the waxy vinyl in my hands. Seizing hold of his record box, I ran outside into the warm sunlight like a girl possessed. Laughing and laughing and twirling on tip toes, I tossed his beloved records one by one like a Frisbee onto the hot metal roof of the trailer. “Wait until the bastard sees this.” I thought.
Spent, I went back inside with the empty box hanging in my hand. What did I do? I sat in the middle of the floor and picked up another page and read.
“Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you really know how to cry, there’s nothing quite like it.”
And that’s what I did. I cried. And not just over the destruction of a book that could be replaced. I cried for the destruction of me, my sanity. I was those ripped out pages tossed about like nothing.