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Spooky as this was to some kids, it didn’t bother me. Another story I can relate to concerns the life-partner of a friend of mine. He had lost his right hand in his youth when it got amputated after a snakebite. The missing hand also never fazed me. People with missing fingers and other unfortunate souls who had severe scars from burns and other disfigurements never made me feel uncomfortable. I always supposed that my mum, who had told me not to stare at people’s misfortunes, had played a vital role in my indifference to skittish superficiality.At this point, however, I wish to make it clear that I have never had a warped or kinky penchant for deformity of any sort, and my entrenched motto in life was never to judge a book by its cover. Hopefully, I am not labouring the point, but for me, beauty was skin deep and needed no inhibitions.I was a salesman for a successful company selling all the products that anglers could require. I was not into fishing but had the gift of the gab. In. He thought she loved him. He thought he was the only man in her life. He thought she had a life… and a future.It made me want to laugh, not a funny laugh, but a bitter, hollow, despairing one, yet I needed to be quiet. The last time I made noise and drew attention to myself, the guy broke my arm before I managed to wrestle free and run out the door. He had wanted to take his frustrations with my mother out on my innocent body. Truth be told, I was rather lucky that all he had managed to do was break a bone. He could have broken me.And my mom? She hadn't bothered to rescue me. I could still see her, in my mind’s eye, standing there high as a kite, against the wall, while I screamed and shouted at my assailant. I got away all on my own, in the end, anyway. So you see, it doesn't matter. Nothing does. Tommy doesn't matter. Not even I do. So whoever his name was, I hoped he was going to be a good guy and to stop shouting, to just get her high, get his complimentary fucking out of the way.
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