i’m 55 years old, and a writer, and my teenage years have been over for a long time. it’s hard to remember.
i sit in front of my computer and stare through my inadequate words, and watch Val sink into the mud of a shotgun wedding, and Brenda step into a locked stairwell in a psychiatric hospital, her face flat and bloated. and, as i write, the remembering morphs into images.
Val wears a toga fashioned out of a bed sheet at the Malakwa Motel, circa 1980.
Brenda clutches a red ruffled umbrella in the Vancouver rain, circa 1984.
the remembering is unpleasant, it replays over and over. and it occurs to me that i abandoned these girls for no reason except living my own life, in my own way. away from that small town. and they escaped, in different ways. drugs and alcohol, and a sharp kitchen knife.