31. 12:00 a.m. - 12:30 a.m.

He was asleep. I looked at the buttons on the remote control, considered pushing them. I weighed the pleasure of waking him like that against the way his company made me feel and decided to let him sleep. His mouth was open. His breath snaked out. Quiet, but audible. I imagined the cells inside his body, metastasizing.

I thought of the times he redefined my body and I cheered the cells--coached them towards my revenge. How many times had I thought of this, watching him die?º More times than I'd had hot meals.

Would things change when he was gone? Would I ever trust one of them? And what if the answers were no? What if, as has occured to me so many times, I'd invented everything: the acts, the memories, the blame. What if he was innocent and I was the monster? What if I was the one living a lie?

The thing about growing up in a house like that, with people like that calling themselves your parents--the thing is, that it trains you to distrust yourself. You look in the mirror and nothing looks familiar. You feel false. Like a cheat.

Dobbs always says, "Trust everyone, but cut the cards."º I was counting the days till I was able to deal myself into the game.

He stirred, then, on the bed, and spoke. The effort it took was incredible, working him harder than I'd ever seen him labor. "Roll me over. I wanna wave at the kids."[mp3s]º There was no one around. He was delusional. His heart full of cancer. [mp3]º I made no move to help him. He said nothing else. Ten minutes later he was back asleep.

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