Overture One

I watch a life coach tell a client “you are a fatherless child always trying to get back to daddy.” 100 degrees and rising, back to daddy. You talk to your father on the phone and he hangs up on you (for the last time.) We are back in the moment when on the beach I forget I will wake up on a mattress with sprung coils from a VA hospital in my mother’s basement.

You are on the floor somehow. Quiet with stereo in the corner playing something unrecognizable on repeat. You are covered in a sheet, red hair popping out of the top. I put on your jean shorts that are much too big for me. I loop the belt twice, walk outside and throw up.

Cover Page Footnote

Overdose in Thirteen Overtures: an Essay was originally published at Booth.