That's what they tried to give me. A way to breathe. Mother, Father, Regina-I loved them so, the way they came forth to plead for my life at the trial. Only Kevin wouldn't. They let themselves be known-utterly. All the family secrets. Like they were offering their lives to me so that I could try to piece it all together hereOnly like the way it is in a dream-a dream in which you walk through yourself becoming the thing you behold. Mother weeping all day, every day tied up down in that basement, the rats scurrying across her toes; my father waiting in that shack, trembling, the long processional of men like it was all one day, a summer afternoon, just a little boy but holding his jaw out stiff the way it always got just before he'd start hitting my mother; Regina holding her jaw the same way, refusing to cry, telling the Court what father forced her to do-- what my mother's father did to her-- what I did to that poor little girl, fucking her that way then forcing her head down into the bathtub.

I could see us now, the family, like branches of a poison tree, a tree that could only grow downward, clawing its way into the earth, latching onto whatever it could take hold of to root itself deeper, water itself with our tears, reach out and claw like Mother's fingernails, twine round itself like tendrils choking off anything that could grow upward and break free, dragging everything back down into the one knot at the center. Only now when I woke sobbing it was my mother I heard crying, not me; my father that time I heard him in the kitchen when he thought no one was home, Sis huddling in the corner of the closet when we hid from Momma, whimpering like that but saying "no, no don't you touch me" her face like granite locked in its impenetrable stare.

I'd lay there every night feeling the images bleed into and out of one another but distinct now too until it got to where I could grind the projector to a halt, snip off one image and hold it still in front of me-though something in me kept racing like kids in a movie house banging their feet and hooting "start the show, start the show." One image. Then another. Individual but also linked like circles cutting into one another. This is that I said. Came from that. Led to that. I am my father and my mother, what happened to them is who I am, what I did. My face under the water is my mother sobbing all day tied up in that basement, the hot wheel tracks lashing our backs are the ropes binding her. My father with Regina in the camper, is me, my voice guttural like his muttering curses in that poor little girl's ear-"whore, bitch, cunt"-- because she looked so weak and submissive whimpering when I slipped the bag over her head so I wouldn't see her face-their faces, mine, all jammed together, rushing up at me out of the bag when it ripped-a single face howling as it broke the water with me hugging her and sobbing "o my god my god forgive me please what have I done?"

Only it was too late-too late already the day I got paroled I could feel it starting to unravel driving home when Mom told me she'd lied, Kevin was still living there, with his wife and daughters, drunk every night bullying everyone and beating on them just like my Dad did. I could see it already, my knuckles whitening over the steering wheel, feel the car spinning out of control on the gravel, my fist crashing into her jaw before it stopped whirling: "take off your clothes,bitch" It had already happened I just didn't know it yet, running around in circles for two weeks like a chicken with its fucking head cut off, hopping back and forth from Mom's to Dad's, where he was living with Mildred and her daughters, Jenny and good old Vicki. I was acting an absurd role in a comedy of my own invention: "Trying to make a Family"-- and feeling it slipping away all the time, knowing Vicki'd be the one to betray me. Even after I brought her a new present every day when she was in the hospital--a stuffed monkey with cymbals that clang together when you wind him up, a book of poems, a flower pot with a single sunflower But no I told myself, the first time, it must be a mistake, she wouldn't do it, lock me out of my father's house after telling me the door would be open; pretended it was a mistake the second time, though I could see it wasn't from that taunting look she gave me when they got back late and found me waiting on the front steps. I felt it beginning then, rage breaking loose in me, in my fist banging on the door, the third time, when I heard them inside laughing at me. "Go ahead," she said, opening the door "do something why don't you, get yourself put back in there where you belong." I followed her out to the kitchen bitch, hearing the voice like his coming out of me "Lie to me will ya, slut, huhhh, you're all a bunch of lying fucking whores," saw the disrespect in her eyes as she brushed by me to the bedroom. Another locked door. I'll show you cunt my fist crashing through it like it was plywood, her face like mothers now when she'd chase us around the house with the spike end of her shoes "You're history buster. The cops. I called them. They'll be here any minute." Only she couldn't stop taunting me even then, sitting there in the driveway, revving the engine to make it sound like it was laughing at me, blowing smoke rings at me through the window while I kept kicking, kicking, kicking at the door banging my fist down on the hood, cursing and crying. Then I ran-

But it was too late. I could feel it spinning out of control all night at Carla's the drugs only made it run faster. Spinning faster the moment Denise slid into the truck next to me, spinning on the gravel when I turned off the road toward a field, spinning like a whirlpool, sucking everything down into the voice screaming "take your clothes off, bitch"----into the voice weeping "O my god no please forgive me what did I do?" But it was still spinning, even after I took her home and told her mother everything" Call the police," I cried. Called them myself the next morning, Begged her " Sis,please, get Branch. Tell him to revoke my parole. Have them pick me up soon please" Because now I couldn't stop it, driving around town all day in circles waiting for them to arrest me, then out into the desert, late into the night, feeling the headlights of the oncoming cars like spikes shooting into my eyes, driving out and away, searching for some place quiet under a tree or hidden in a field high with weeds so I could sleep.

Only it never slept I'd feel it the moment my eyes snapped open. It was already racing as if sleep had only increased its energy and sapped mine. Like I was still spinning on the gravel, going round and round faster and faster sinking deeper and deeper, trying to keep my head from going under, driving each day a wider circle out into the desert, feeling the heat of it coming down on me, rising up from the pavement toward me-and rage hot all over me, trying to outrun the rage but knowing it would bring me back, each circle wider and narrower, all leading to a single point, a point of infinite density, my heart, like the inside of a black hole: and in it another little town, a truck stop, a bar, staring hard at all of them now , seeing Vicki in everyone one of them, telling myself this'll be the one, knowing it was going to happen and fighting against it, against that haughty smile she gave me when we were done playing darts. "Wait for me outside," she whispered.

It was in a vial she carried in a chain around her neck and it was good, the kind of speed that takes you out in one great rush clear to the edge of the world where you can see the stars dancing it'll be all right, I said, maybe we can take a blanket lie out under the night sky and talk there's no rush take it slow and easy But it all spilled out of me the moment I entered herand there it was building again in me, right away, the need to do it again "Whoah Cowboy," she laughed, "Take it slow this time okay?"-- and I felt it all rush back on me the way speed gets when everything rushes away but the rage, rage raging in me, in my fists hitting at her, my hands tightening around her throat forcing her down--, so I get to see it in her face for a change-- fear, panic, terror--how do you like it mother?-- the full weight of my body over her pressing down on her wind-pipe, cursing and crying (he emits a terrifying sound) -- only it was too late: there was nothing but her eyes staring at me with that look that came into them right before the end, staring at me like that forever.

I had it all now all right, my life, the whole picture, I held it in the palm of my hand, complete in its necessity, random in its cruelty, meaningless in its horror. And I could feel it rush right through me like a thunderbolt, my own hand dashing the cyanide pellet to the ground, my lungs gulping the poisoned air, sucking on death, feeling my whole life rush headlong through me to its pointless and inevitable end.