Ghost Hand

Marcus looked down. “Ah, man! This was my favorite shirt. Who tore it?” he asked, trying to pull the ragged edges together.

You know,” he said, “P.S.S. Piss Camp.” “Yeah, I get it,” I said, “It’s just not funny.

...but I’d learned a long time ago that the worse things are, the more people lie about them.

Let’s just say, there’s not much of a moon out tonight,” Nose continued anyway, “but if Yale joined us, there would be.

I know babe" he said, wrapping me in his arms. I could hear the loudly thu-bump of his heart as he picked me up and carried me like a child. And he called me Babe.

Gone was the insignificant, defective girl. I was some kind of f**king comic book vigilante & it felt amazing!

Instead, I just sat there crying, hoping he’d come find me, which made me cry even harder.

Was he just humouring me? Just giving me the illusion of control while he manipulated me into doing what he wanted with his overwhelming proximity?