Ghosts Ghosts Ghosts Ghosts Ghosts

I am Thomas. You don't know me.

My dad was a drinker. You know, how bad can it go. Every Sunday morning he would sit naked, listen to his favourite Georgia Gibbs and get his cruel orgasm from a possibly afflicted whore. I watched in shadow, watched the moans fly from our square rooms and hit damp marsh corners. Then when he pushed through the doors and coughed, I could see little blood in our dark rooms. The whore sneaked in, a droopy saggy woman who has strangled her self respect and admiration in a cesspool of nihilism.

My mother lived seperate. She was a small woman, with small dreams. A Thunderbird beside a small house, two rats as pet and cheescake on Sunday morning. She had a squeaky voice, high pitched. Thomas, she used to sometimes hush. Thomas, oh my boy. You would not get there to your father's home. He is the vile man I wanted to cure but it is such a malady. Oh what do you know. Thomas?

I graduated when I was 21. None of my parents came to see me. Just my friend Alex came, whiskering his new pet. A jolly happy mood whimpering dog. We went to Marvin's house later, had bit of drinks. I was lectured on human anatomy, and how should I be cautious and enjoy losing my virginity. I felt small in size, shrinking in a small dark room of Marvin which he used for storing out-of-trend cassettes and albums. They laughed, had sex all night. I kept on shrinking till every wall and record of that room felt a giant dune to me. I have no parents to celebrate my graduation day. No girlfriend to kiss wild and trespass someone's wild pasteur.

I studied marketing and got into a sales thing. They asked me to sell viagra for $40 to men who are taxi drivers and warehouse workers. Those men laughed at me, said they rub bullocks cum and that is natural. I eventually sold books to old professors, hippies who love to read a tossed out of print book about marijuana and sometimes even to pretty ladies who still fantasized about Bronton prince kissing their arse.

I married Lin when I was 34. Lin was a Walmart sales associate. She had her own house in Southville, had two small dogs, and her amnesiac mother. Lin was not fond of sex much, she had terrible fits sometimes. I found she is bipolar. We rented out an apartment near my office, and she used to be with me during Sundays. Cooking, her friends used to scream out in the quiet evening of Sunday when sun was a molten bitch in western sky. We fucked sometimes, never had a child. When we crossed the second year with wet kisses and terrible fights, Lin got me those ugly long divorce papers. I could not read so many miniature letters on it. I met Lin's husband later, he was some musical guy who owns a small music studio in Southern California.

I took to drinking. Bourbon became my favourite sport. A glass that smelled so putrid and looked like bromidic. I marked it everyday, then began to measure when my head hit hard. Measured every drop of the vile nectar that made me a freak in my square room. I saw a naked Lin, her arms squirming the heavy body of that musical guy. Alcohol burnt my head so faster that words slowly started to disintegrate, and I laughed for hours. I was still in my sales job. Then I sold giant head Macintosh parts. Tiresome. I drove my second hand Cadillac in long streets of 22nd street and looked out for a street side bar. I would love to toss out my entire savings for a seet violin with crab meat.

I saw my dad, naked standing in the streets. I hate how he grins looking at me. I ran my car straight towards him. Then everything blacked out.

I got a six years judicial custody. They said I ran over a civilian. A fine that ate good in my savings. Lin came once, she looked more pale. She has a child, a boy. I retired for my remaining days to the cold darkness that swallowed me and feast on my frail body. One day I saw my dad standing near my cell. Naked. The tyre marks and a mutilated flesh on his body. He hoarsely asked if I am okay. I was not, so I cried. Then he came inside my cell and strangled me.