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Chapter Twenty-One

Title: From a Mockery Into a Mess


Fuck.

Fuck.

...

...

Fuck
.

It's impossible to escape.

Three days and I can't think of anything else, even if I sort of don't, guilt comes crashing into me like a ton of bricks. No coherent thoughts or words. Just an irrepressable movement, shame, a desperation for amneisia.
 

***


Our postman had a heart attack.

Right on our doorstep.

I wasn't feeling guitly about George then.

***
 
Annie took me out one night. I had promised to introduce her to some people when she was ready to go out. I don't think she was, but she took me out anyway.

I introduced her to a guy from the nineties and an ex-lady of the night who claimed to have known Dickens intimately. I left them to talk.

There were three points during that night when I didn't feel guilty about George.

***

I sit on the sofa ('Mitchell's Sofa') and breathe through my hands. I don't feel guilty for the times when I didn't feel guilty. Well, I do, but not for the right reasons.

I feel guilty because I don't think I should've tried to escape what I did. I don't feel guilty for the method I used. I feel guilty that there was a time when I didn't feel guilty. I don't feel guilty for what I was doing at that time.

I probably will when I see George. Because George has certain veiws on things. And I know I should agree with them.

When I see George I will feel guilty.

Facing George. That'll be a laugh.
***

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