Not the mother produced by my fragmented psyche, but my real mother. I was eight years old and it was after one of my many run-ins with Izzy in a torm...nting mood. You have to learn to accept the pain, because it's always going to be there, in one shape or another. It doesn't last, she told me. It passes. All things pass.She was wrong about that. But then, she was talking about regular people.The clock on the night stand chimed midnight. Lilly was spread eagled on top of the duvet, lying on her. When I reached her front door, it was slightly open. I knocked on it and shouted out “Hello” but there was no response from within her bungalow. I pushed it open a bit more and went inside just to make sure that she was alright, she not having heard me call out to her. A buzzing sound was coming from one of the rooms, the bedroom as it so turned out. So making my way towards it, I peeped through the crack and could not believe what I was witnessing. There she was laying on her back, legs wide. More

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