Suicides start at the center of winter, and fall like dominoes all the way down the square row of days, until the weight of snow lifts off and lets us breathe again in spring.
“You know, you’re incredible. I don’t know if you’re crazy or if you’re the stuff that towers over the masses of the mediocre, but I’m not willing to have to watch you go through the ugliness you’re going through now and I don’t think I could face what’s going to happen after this-when all those doors shut in your face and they tell you whatever lie it is they’re telling to Blacks and Puerto Ricans and women that day. You’re strong enough to watch it. After watching Daddy, I haven’t got the hear to see it all over again.” She stopped, took a breath and lowered her eyes to linoleum floor, “I feel shitty. I just feel shitty. Maybe some of it is that I don’t have real work of my own. I go around being beautiful and having fun, yeah, but I don’t have anything for me, really mine, and you do, and it fucking kills me.”
“So what the hell am I supposed to do? Give it up to make you happy? Be a failure, so you can feel good about yourself?”
“No, no. Oh, Molly, deep inside I do what you to bust right out of here, to break the whole scene wide open. I know what it means to you, and maybe I’m even perceptive enough to know what it will mean to a lot of other people if you do. It’s the everyday wear and tear that brings out the green in me. I begin to hate you, hate you and I love you, that’s a fucked mess-but I start to resent you for all the things that make you strong, that enable you to stand up under that daily erosion. I begin to hate myself because I’m not like you.”