...poking A Lump Of Red Jello That

Afterward, I Curl Around Her. We Lie In Silence Until Darkness Falls, And Then, Haltingly, She Begins To Talk...she Speaks Without Need Or Even Room For Response, So I Simply Hold Her And Stroke Her Hair. She Talks Of The Pain, Grief, And Horror Of The Past Four Years; Of Learning To Cope With Being The Wife Of A Man So Violent And Unpredictable His Touch Made Her Skin Crawl And Of Thinking, Until Quite Recently, That She'd Finally Managed To Do That. And Then, Finally, Of How My Appearance Had Forced Her To Realize She Hadn't Learned To Cope At All.

...poking A Lump Of Red Jello That Jiggles Outrageously, Like A Breast I Once Knew.

Life Goes On With Fragile Normalcy.

Honey, I Plan To Marry You The Moment The Ink Is Dry On That Death Certificate.

He Stares At Me, And Then Leans Back In His Chair. "he's Ill, Jacob." I Say Nothing. "he's A Paragon Schnitzophonic." "he's What?!" "paragon Schnitzophonic," Repeats Uncle Al. "you Mean Paranoid Schizophrenic?" "sure. Whatever. But The Bottom Line Is He's Mad As A Hatter.