We accepted the bank’s terms this morning and they accepted our acceptance. When it was over, I first felt relieved. The first thing I did was pull into the house, step outside, and water the plants. I haven’t watered the plants in weeks, watching their shriveled existence in passivity, perhaps enjoying that their pain resembled mine. But then, I felt compassion for them and wished them goodwill.

But while the water rained on the thirsty plants, the relief metamorphosed into something dark and numb, like a shark’s eye. I felt … malevolent. Like I could crush, pierce, grind, and clack without horror, without pleasure, without feeling at all.

I want to pack in earnest now. We’ve been taking our time, puttering around, listless. But now, I want to get out of here fast. I don’t want to ever see this house again. I want it behind me, forever forgotten. I hate it. I hate it for the years it robbed. For blighted dreams. For plans gone awry. For missed opportunities. I hate it for being so far and away not what it was intended. It is a perversion. A waste. A black hole devouring stars.

I anticipate seeing Prineville in my rearview mirror. I want it receding into the distance, disappearing in the horizon. I want it gone, blotted out, and cast away.


As Greta would say, it is such a good word. It sounds evil — having all the letters of that word, save one, included.

Rejected, I want to reject.

I know in the future I may be able to construct a memory of this place with fondness.

But not now.

There is a time for everything, and now is the time to hate, to feel humiliation. To taste the bitterness of defeat. To relish the gall.

I feel, not the red-hot anger, but the cold, clammy fury of revenge — of wanting someone else to pay, someone else to blame, a receptacle for the emotions I wish to pour.

But there is no one.

I am defeated. And it is bitter. I surrender, seething.

It will all be over soon. The hope will return. But, today, I don’t care. I don’t care at all.