Exitus

“Shove over and make room,” Progress said when she appeared beside him, having sneaked up on him where he was sitting with both buttocks planted on the middle of the single chair.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she told him.

“Really?”

“You’re thinking: why did I kill my mother? Are you impressed?”

“Not really. I was actually thinking about the Greek philosophers.”

“We need to talk about her,” Progress whispered, loudly.

He groaned.

“It’s not good to keep things bottled up. You need to explore how your mother’s rejection of you makes you feel.”

“With whom am I supposed to explore that? You?”

“I took classes in psychology when I was an undergraduate. I’m sure I can help.”

“I’m not keeping anything bottled up,” he hissed. “She wasn’t my mother.”

“You really do need help.”