#23722 - He was pointing to the door, and she moved quicker than I’d ever seen, leaving me alone with my father, and Greta’s report of my cock-sucking hanging over us like a swarm of locusts. My mother died giving birth, which I just somehow always knew, even if no one ever talked about it. Sunday night, my dad knocked on my bedroom door and asked me to give him the magazines, “I’ll give them back after your birthday,” he promised with a wry grin, “If you want them.
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