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THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2011

Mommy is gone. Sometimes she goes outside. And it is only me. Me and my cars and my blankie. When she comes home she sleeps on the couch. The couch is brown and sticky. She is tired. Sometimes I cover her with my blankie. Or she comes home with something to eat. I like those days. We have bread and butter. And sometimes we have macrami and cheese. That is my favorite. Today Mommy is gone. I play with my cars. They go fast on the floor. My mommy is gone. She will come back. She will. When is Mommy coming home? It is dark now, and my mommy is gone. I can reach the light when I stand on the stool. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light. I’m hungry. I eat the cheese. There is cheese in the fridge. Cheese with blue fur. When is Mommy coming home? Sometimes she comes home with him. I hate him. I hide when he comes. My favorite place is in my mommy’s closet. It smells of Mommy. It smells of Mommy when she’s happy. When is Mommy coming home? My bed is cold. And I am hungry. I have my blankie and my cars but not my mommy. When is Mommy coming home? I wake with a start. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I hate my dreams. They’re riddled with harrowing memories, distorted reminders of a time I want to forget. My heart is pounding and I’m drenched with sweat. But the worst consequence of these nightmares is dealing with the overwhelming anxiety when I wake. My nightmares have recently become more frequent, and more vivid. I have no idea why. Damned Flynn—he’s not back until sometime next week. I run both of my hands through my hair and check the time. It’s 5:38, and the dawn light is seeping through the curtains. It’s nearly time to get up. Go for a run, Grey. THERE IS STILL NO text or e-mail from Ana. As my feet pound the sidewalk, my anxiety grows.

Leave it, Grey.

E l james grey  
E l james grey  

Fifty Shades of Grey

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