Writer
Gordon asked me how I could spend all day writing about things I’ve never done and probably will never do. How could I describe the agonies of death if I’d never witnessed them? I returned home full of questions, doubts, resentments… His interrogations distressed me and hindered my prose. I couldn’t think clearly.
When she knocked at my door, talking about God, I knew she was a sign from heaven. God had sent her to me to ease my pain. She came into my home and sat on the sofa, and while she talked about salvation, I could only think about how to do it: strangling, throat-cutting, poisoning. A whole range of possibilities opened up before me. Then I thought, horrified, of the blood and the screams. I offered her a cup of coffee which she accepted without hesitation. She was the first in my long list of creations, but it’s funny how I never write anymore.
