Strange FruitMature

I stopped for a moment to look what I had made.  Shit pie.  I wanted to feed it to him.  But I left it.  He left for work and I took a look at Ophelia and shouted at her.  I had to take her to the quaks for a check up.  A year ago, I gave birth to her and I regretted every minute of it since then.  Still, it wasn't her fault.  It wasn't his either; just me - for thinking it would change anything.

It was when all my friends were settling down and breeding and I thought - why not - they seemed happy.  A part of me thinks I was glad for leaving work not least that I didn't have to endure endless patter about the breeders at work and what there offspring where up to; where they took them; what they fed them; what they dressed them in.  That and their mortgage repayments.

I think I had been depressed before I got pregnant with her.  I couldn't reject Ophelia.  She kept me oddly stable.  I was depressed but I knew that taking care of her was what kept me surfacing.

No, my anger turned on him.  I imagined what I would do with him when he slept: suffocate him with a pillow; tie him up and tear a deep gash down his arms with a blunt blade; cut his cock off and let the dog eat it.  I just hated him.  I don't know why.  Maybe because not matter what he did, it just fucking annoyed me.  He was a loving husband but I just turned against men when I gave birth. 

I was on the train the other day and there was a young girl sitting opposite me.  She was pretty and I could tell she was intelligent.  Quiet but probably vulnerable.  I remember it - it was late summer, just when it begins to get a bit colder in the evenings and you take to wearing your cardigan or sweater.  The sun was still out at 7pm and it hung stubbornly in the air, with the posture of a matador in the sultry heat in Spain.

A man sat opposite her and cast his shadow over her.  He smiled at her.  He was being polite, I thought.  He was in his 40s, white, with a suit and paper taking the train home from his white-collared job down to somewhere in south london, into the suburbs, into his parochial life, behind closed doors where he probably fucked his stepdaughter.  You could just tell.  He was a perv.  He cast a shadow over her.  She was an angel I felt I had to protect.

He started talking to her.  Hi, he said.  Nice evening.  She replied but just smiled. She didn't want to talk.  He was horned up and he wanted to flirt.  She was only about 15.  Still in her school uniform.  What a twat, I thought.  She's still at school, I thought.  I thought, I thought until those thoughts came back.

He stopped off the train and I got up instinctively.  He got off and I followed him.  I remember his cocky walk and it just wound me up further.  I could tell what he was thinking.  Yeah, I've flirted with a schoolgirl - I'm gonna go and have a wank in the toilets!  Sure enough, he did.  I waited till he came out and I followed him down the station walk where the evening was turning in my favour and casting its dark cloak over my endeavour.


The End

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