Michael Patterson lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling, his favorite toys by his side. There was Woggy and Ditzy and Buttons and Charlene-so-lifelike-you-can-take-her-ho
Sleep eluded him this night, as it had for so many. He didn't want to see these things, these endless repetions of years gone by, but he found himself wholly unable to turn them off. He knew this was the doing of his captor. A sadistic beast who had assumed the shape of a middle aged human female, undoubtably but erroneously thinking it would somehow soothe him into docility. Thinking it would keep him complacent during the eternally static present into which he had been thrust.
He wondered where his mommy was that night ...
He sat in the kitchen, unnoticed by the adults. His mother, a youngish woman with a face that could be described as almost pretty, waved a critical finger to her own mother, a stoutish figure dressed in blue.
"Do you have to wear blue all the time, mom?" Mommy said, utterly unselfconscious of her own blue blouse. She eyed her mother's grey bun of hair with disgust. "And why don't you change your hair?"
So it goes.
Grandma sat across the table from Mommy, while Granpa Jim puffed away on a cigarette, the wandering appendix which would one day kill him flapping prominently on his chin.
"We've always been sorry you didn't finish university before getting married, Elly," Grandma was saying.
Mommy averted her head, recalling how she has wondered when they would resume their old parent-daughter roles, surrepititiously checking her own chin for errant appendices. Granpa Jim's cigarette drooped and Grandma Marian's profile, a twin of what her daughter's would be in twenty years, walked off out of frame.