He told me he hated cats; they were more useless than fucking pigeons. The corners of his mouth turn up, but only a little. His eyes are still empty. He told me that when he was a kid he used to catch kittens and place them in pillow cases to be tossed in the Hudson River. He would watch them struggle and finally drown. Sometimes it took a couple hours. He found it to be relaxing to imagine what it felt like to be them.
He hated cats. Maybe I really was dead when he tossed me into the river. I couldn’t see him through the bag, but he would have waited for me to sink. If he imagined my thoughts of fear, he was wrong. I thought, “I never wanted to be a mermaid.”
(I love this painting, the photos do not even begin to do it justice.)