"You fucking coward! I hate you!" I scream over and over at my father.
I'm dreaming again, but it doesn't matter. I wake to the sharp bite of my fingernails digging into my heart lines, my cat, blinking and impervious by my side. He is used to my midnight screams, the sheets twisted and sweaty, pillowcase wet with tears.
The man's been dead sixteen years, and I'm still angry. Whoever said time heals all wounds must have suffered a minor scratch or got the equation wrong. What is there to do now but throw back the damp sheets, flip my pillow to the dry side, wipe my face, and turn my cheek?
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