everybody lives in ohio

my mother spontaneously combusted. she used to sit on the kitchen bench and listen to records or read books or chat to her girlfriends on the phone while she cooked dinner. she'd pop down to stir a pot and then slide right back up onto her perch. she wore boots and i sat on the floor beneath her, listening and drawing, imagining. waiting for my dinner. lamb. onions. potatoes.

her name was vivian.

that's all for now.

a deep navy blue woollen dress with a thick red collar and hem. electric frying pan. a man. her hair was long. straight.

wait.

my feet were dirty. i didn't wear shoes.

that's enough for today.

stockings are hanging off the cupboard door. dangling. something's wrong. i'm there. i'm a boy. his hands are ...

i'm not ready.

i know him. from the pictures in the album under the boxes in the shed. i think it's my dad. i don't remember. she didn't tell me. nobody would tell me.

it's too much.

there's blood. the pan is burning. the cupboards are on fire. she's ... he's punching her.

i can't.

there are flames on the ceiling. the phone is on the floor and i want to say something, somebody is screaming. screaming.

that's it. that's all. no. there's not any more.

her knees are burning. her legs. i can see her skin. melting. dripping. inside of her legs. actually inside. it's a bone. i can't look. she doesn't have a face. he's not on fire. he's wearing jeans. he's standing there. he's watching her. why isn't he burning. he won't look away. why aren't i burning?

i need to sleep now.

it smells like a train. i can't see any more. i don't know any more. i don't understand. i need to talk to someone. i need to find people who know. but everyone lives in ohio.