

Note: This is an encore post from 2005 and originally appeared on the 1947project.
Joyce, 13, came home that afternoon and told her father and stepmother what she had done. Her father, an auto body mechanic, ordered his wife and son not to say anything until he figured out what to do. The next morning, Joyce went to school as if nothing was wrong while her stepmother washed out her bloody clothes.
The next day, Joyce calmly faced four detectives, but collapsed in tears when her stepmother fell, sobbing, at her feet. Then she told her story.



Well, today’s the day. If we get past it we’re in. Of course, no one is sure for what or for how long.
“I walk alone,” the voice on the phone told me, more as an apology than as a boast. “With me, it’s habit. I guess I never learned any other way.”

Note: This is an encore post from 2008.




