The Imago Shattered

The imago of my grandfather shattered under hypnosis, when the truth was finally revealed.  My memory suffered a lacuna that was filled by the revelation that he had known what George was doing to me.  How does one’s psyche block that out so completely? 

Should I confront him when I arrive home?  Should I try to pretend that nothing has changed? 

The knocking from the engine block told me I’d have more time to think.  After calling the tow truck, waiting for thirty minutes and suffering through the noxious stench of the driver...I am home, but what is home now?

I realize that I am walking toward his room, I don’t know what I’ll say or do.  The miasma in my soul at the prospect of entering that dark room - where I know he sits - is causing extreme dizziness.

Oh. My. God.  I find I can do nothing but oscitate at the room before me.  There is blood everywhere, the jagged edge to the mirror points up toward the ceiling and is protruding from his throat.

Synchronicity was my friend when it allowed my car to break down and give me an alibi.

I’m glad he’s dead, gleeful even.

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