“He was a selfish shitting bastard,” I said, practically hurling the words. They tasted bitter, like the skin of an underripe orange. “He never hugged me, never laid a hand on me except that time he walked in on me in the bathroom and caught me wearing – He never came within five feet of showing me any kind of emotional support, unless you count telling someone they’re wasting their time on art as ‘support.’ The only thing he ever gave me was this faulty f*****g body, rotting from the inside out. It’s the last thing I ever wanted from him, and it’s going to kill me by degrees. And if he knew that … if he knew what he’d done …”
“What?”
“I bet you he’d be thrilled.”
“Are you being honest with yourself about that?”
“No,” I said, more snidely than I’d intended. “I’m being transparent.”
††
