The next page named Mr. Bridge in a case accusing him of molesting one of his own students. That’s all I needed to read. I screamed out, knowing I’d been had, I’d been used. I slammed my fists into my wall, tearing my Duran Duran poster in half. The Rio album poster was next. Then Adam Ant, Culture Club, Pat Benatar, the Go-Go’s, Yazz, and finally the signed Rebel Yell 1984 concert poster for Billy Idol.
My hand was cut from something I’d hit. All I wanted was for it to hurt more. For it to overwhelm and drown me. What was the music for anyway but to avoid. To pretend I lived in another decade, another world.
The Cure’s “Disintegration” came to mind, the line about it being easier to get to heaven than being whole.
Waiting on my bedpost was the tie, its folds shining blue in the moonlig
