Me.

“She’s a fuckin’ bitch, that one.”

He said.

To me.

His daughter.

As I left the room.

After bringing him his beer.

He said it.

Before I had even.

Left the room.

And.

He said it.

To an empty room.

It was just me.

And him.

It’s just been.

Him and me.

For a very long time.

I looked back.

To see.

His eyes.

To see.

If they were looking.

At me.

Because if they were.

It would mean.

Bad stuff.

For me.

Later on.

He was just watching the TV.

With a remote.

In his hand.

His grubby hand.

That sometimes grabbed.

Me.

There’s a gun.

It’s upstairs.

Where I’m not supposed to go.

In the closet.

Next to the shoebox –

The one with photos.

Of me.

And Cousin Sarah.

And some videotapes.

I know that I’m not allowed.

To go in there.

Daddy told me.

That if I went in there.

“There’d be hell to pay.”

I don’t want to pay hell.

But I keep thinking.

About the gun.

Just sitting there.

And I think.

I’m supposed to.

Use it.

I just.

Don’t know.

If I’m supposed to.

Use it.

On him.

Or on.

Me.