Ladies and gentlemen, angels and demons, “peanut-crunching crowds,” a fair-haired matron slouches against a wall frantically scrolling through the phonebook in her cell, searching, wide-eyed, for one number. She needs only one number, only one voice to let her crumble, and not subject her to the requisite of discussing the situation. She needs only one voice who will hold together her pieces until she regains her grip, and not ploy her with makeshift promises of safety and desire. She needs only one voice who will understand the primordial need to purge the bile of fear and doubt and hatred, and not recoil from her torture like the candle-singed wing of a lunar moth. There isn’t one, one number, one voice. Our matron slides to the floor and drops her eyes to her knees, pressing tightly fighting the torrent of tears threatening to drown her last wanted breath. Her lips part with silent pleas to Her or to Him, “Release me of this obligation.” If only she had one voice…
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