She felt
scared that she was going to be a mother. She felt unhappy that she had
been disowned by her father, but she also, you know, felt happy when her
mother called to tell her that she would answer any questions that she
had about pregnancy. She felt most enthusiastically about her school
guidance counsellor because he had, you know, just listened to her
"spill her guts" and hadn't tried to, you know, make her feel bad. At no
time, needless to say, did the word "think" cross her lips. There is, of
course, no need for her to think. The taxpayers of Canada will pay for
all of her baby's needs. She didn't need to be made to feel bad. All
that she needed was someone to direct her to the appropriate agency. The
rest of it was just paperwork. It's a free country, isn't it?
That means you can do whatever you want.
Doesn't it?
Unbidden, the image of the Cerebus Theatre swam to the surface of Viktor
Davis' awareness. He turned away from his typewriter and allowed the
picture to coalesce in his mind's eye.
The Cerebus readership was there, composed in some (small? large?)
measure of females with their male housepets. He squinted, endeavouring
to see if any male was chafing at the invisible conduits and
metaphorical tubing which drained his life, his essence, his energy as
surely and as effectively as any fictional vampire. Cats' eyes gleamed
in the darkness, filled with malice. A couple of rows back an obese
brunette was stripping away chunks of brain tissue from a thin, pale
youth with a spotted face. His head lolled against his shoulder in her
direction, his face radiant with ecstasy. He turned to her, his eyes
half-lidded. He smiled and mouthed, "I love you." She smiled back at
him, indulgently. His eyes closed once more. She stuck out her sandpaper
.
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