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This small room is filled to the brim
with TVs stacked on top of each other in
a magnificent array on the three walls
of the room. The fourth wall has just
one large screen.
Each TV is broadcasting a
young/middle-aged/old woman masturbating
her brains out. All of them have been
sexually assaulted by their grandfather
when they were 5 years old.
The fourth wall is directly opposite to
you. The screen on it is displaying what
seems to be a diary entry. It has coffee
stains on it.
The diary entry reads:
> So I railed against it, in search of
> the answer to what the fuck was up
> with my grandfather doing that to
> me. What the fuck? What the fuck?
> What the fuck?
> But I could never shake it. That
> particular fuck would not be
> shook. Asking what the fuck only
> brought it around. Around and around
> it went, my grandfather’s cock in my
> hands, the memory if [sic] it so
> vivid, so palpable, so very much a
> part of me. It came to me during sex
> and not during sex. It came to me in
> flashes and it came to me in
> dreams. It came to me one day when I
> found a baby bird, fallen from a tree.
> I’d always heard that you’re not
> supposed to pick up baby birds; that
> once you touch them their mama won’t
> come back and get them, but it doesn’t
> matter if that’s true or not—this bird
> was a goner anyway. Its neck was
> broken. Its head lolling treacherously
> to the side. I cradled it as
> delicately as I could in my palms,
> cooing to soothe it, but each time I
> cooed, it only struggled piteously to
> get away, terrified by my voice.
> The bird’s suffering would’ve been
> unbearable for me to witness at any
> time, but it was particularly
> unbearable at that moment in my life
> because my mother had just died. And
> because she was dead I was pretty much
> dead too. I was dead but alive. And I
> had a baby bird in my palms that was
> dead but alive as well. I knew there
> was only one humane thing to do,
> though it took me the better part of
> an hour to work up the courage to do
> it: I put the baby bird in a paper bag
> and smothered it with my hands.
> Nothing that has died in my life has
> ever died easily and this bird was no
> exception. This bird did not go down
> without a fight. I could feel it
> through the paper bag, pulsing against
> my hand and rearing up, simultaneously
> flaccid and ferocious beneath its
> translucent sheen of skin, precisely
> as my grandfather’s cock had been.
> There it was! There it was
> again. Right there in the paper
> bag. The ghost of that old man’s cock
> would always be in my hands. But I
> understood what I was doing this
> time. I understood that I had to press
> against it harder than I could
> bear. It had to die. Pressing harder
> was murder. It was mercy.
> That’s what the fuck it was. The fuck
> was mine.
> And the fuck is yours too, WTF. That
> question does not apply “to everything
> every day.” If it does, you’re wasting
> your life. If it does, you’re a lazy
> coward and you are not a lazy coward.
> Ask better questions, sweet pea. The
> fuck is your life. Answer it.
> Yours,
> Sugar
Who is Sugar?
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