How to Escape Sadie Giggis

How to Escape

Sadie Giddis

1. Let your hands graze that white, capricious popcorn ceiling, although your fingertips may find its abrasiveness unnerving, and think again of the asbestos itching for a chance to fill your lungs.

2. Pick up your thick cotton bag, distended by items your younger self packed: a faded ibuprofen bottle, a roughly patterned knife, corrugated blade and all, and your breath, which flees your mouth when

he speaks, his low voice like rum splashing in a mug, stolen coins clattering inside a knapsack, massive skull and crossbones fluttering in the wind.

3. Wince at the bile taunting your throat, so journey to a grubby gas station set ablaze with neon signs, where a middle-aged woman greets you unceremoniously at checkout, her hair darker than a single thought.

4. Think that she could be your mother, but her mouth reflects a lifetime of droll thank-you’s, so take your bag of sour gummy bears and leave,

wishing instead, childishly, you could clamber over the counter littered with crumpled receipts and loose cigarettes, and leap into her wary arms.