Bruce L. Priddy

My nights are pretty much the same.

I throw him in the Ohio, each piece in its own garbage bag.  Then, I suck down a pack of smokes until the water carries all of him away.

Back home, I have a dinner of bourbon and painkiller cocktails.  I down enough of them to ignore my distending belly.  Down enough that the pain is dull as he rips his way out from between my legs, again.

Drink and drugs and blood loss make me dead to everything but him, crawling up to my chest, nuzzling into my neck and whispering, “Daddy.”

About Russ Thompson

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