She mimics the part. She’s simply undead.
There are ghosts caught in her hair.
In dreams, Sylvia gasps for breath. She wears a skirt and lies on top of the covers.
I want to adore her, smell her and peel away the hurt.
But Professor Applebaum was the centrifuge, the undoing and the mean of our clan.
There’s a knock at the door. It must be Thomas Ogre, the femur. “Go away,” I say defeated. I lie on the couch with the ashtray on my chest, cig hanging from my mouth. Sylvia is around in the ether of our house. The knock insists, louder. “Mr. Dorian, it’s the detectives. Please. We’ve been trying to reach you. It’s urgent.” On the TV, the tables are turned. A woman, Heifer Dubious, anorexic serial killer and mother of twelve, beamed. That smile of perfectly groomed teeth mesmerizes this ma
