She always went out dancing on Saturdays with the girls from work at which time I could be found perched in my chair draped in all but a worn throw and my conscious mind. I loved these nights although, there was a time when I had despised -no feared them. The week strode on as normal but the sense that I would be left to my own demise come Saturday had put a sock in my throat.

         We didn't fuck anymore and I knew it was my fault. She never read to me either. I had enjoyed that I suppose, in fact I often still requested it to no avail. "Dear I'm tired, let go of my eyelids." Pathetic. I was pathetic. A poor sap of my own creation.

         Ahem, so here I sit draped in self loathing, biting my frustration -my struggle- like a fucking ball gag. The night progressed and as the glass drained and filled, drained and filled, repeat... etc. I dug for sympathy like a rabbit. Run from the sun. I hadn't even jacked-off in a month, possibly more. Who was she fucking? Not herself. She was still beautiful -naive. Me? Nah. Self conscious had whithered away anything worth fucking. Anything worth loving, lost to me when I turned out the lights. Should've pulled the trigger when I had the chance. Oh yes, on down the freeway, fucking high ho silver! On to Jackson baby, you best believe it!

         Door open/shut. A cold chill arrived with her presence. Her blackened figure appeared in the doorway. I couldn't see her face but her voice told me she had been listening all night long. "Dear, why have you shot yourself time and time again?" "Shot myself you say?" "Mhmm..." "You're funny..."