Geçen sene Çiftlik Barınağı'ndan bir tavuk sahiplendim. Fiesta isimli bu simsiyah tavuk, Bronx'ta bir parkta dolaşırken bulunmuştu. Onu bulanlar, tavuğun daha önce o civarda bulunan diğer ölü tavukların nedeni olduğu söylenen, bir hayvanın kurban edilmesiyle yapılan Santeria töreninden kaçmış olabileceğini düşünüyorlardı. Olan her ne idiyse bu
Sayfa 62 - Raskolnikov KitapKitabı okudu
Home is definitely a sanctuary for many women – a place where they can leave the persona and the internal social monitor at the door and relax. Leaving home can feel like an effort, a foray into hostile territory.
Once immersed in your subject of interest, there is a predictability and escape from the chaotic real world. Knowing everything about a subject makes it known and provides a sanctuary from the anxiety and stress of a feeling of not knowing what’s going to happen most of the time.
It’s a strange thing, to never know peace. To know that no matter where you go, there is no sanctuary. That the threat of pain is always a whisper away. I’m not safe locked into these 4 walls, I was never safe leaving my house, and I couldn’t even feel safe in the 14 years I lived at home. The asylum kills people every day, the world has already been taught to fear me, and my home is the same place where my father locked me in my room every night and my mother screamed at me for being the abomination she was forced to raise.
She always said it was my face.
There was something about my face, she said, that she couldn’t stand. Something about my eyes, the way I looked at her, the fact that I even existed. She’d always tell me to stop looking at her. She’d always scream it. Like I might attack her. Stop looking at me, she’d scream. You just stop looking at me, she’d scream.
She put my hand in the fire once.
Just to see if it would burn, she said. Just to check if it was a regular hand, she said.
I was 6 years old then.
I remember because it was my birthday.
