25.11
We call the killers beautiful. It happens all the time.
There is no need to be afraid. The things of the world pour through Tonya. She
feels immobilized and drugged. She spits so the seeds of death will grow as she
takes another swig of coca cola. Tonya was working hard at establishing her
innocence. I had thrown my hat in the haha. She considered me her oppressor. I
would shake her books and count the money that would fall on the floor. She had
never seen mountains before. She begged me to stop the car so she could get out
and take a good look at them. She was upset when I told her there was no film
in the camera, this was before digital cameras. We stopped at a trout fishing
spot and had lunch. I read to her a couple of poems from Richard Brautigan as
she fidgeted on the blanket. She wanted me to write down all the names of my
hookers. She wanted to sew their names into a quilt just like her grandmother
did with her grandchildren. Tonya found it hard to sleep. In the morning she
would be attacking the shore of the small little beach head. She knew that some
of them would be dead, that not every girl would make it back alive. Bonnie was
lying flat on her bunk with her eyes closed. She kept telling herself that she
would be one of the unlucky ones. She prayed to every god she could think of
and to some that she was sure she had made up. Bonnie figured that any god fake
or real was just as good as any in a tight situation like this. Tonya was
thinking about hard things like if they would be shipping her body home. She
wondered if Hugo would remember what her pussy felt like. Tonya told lies to
all the other girls about how pretty they were or how one had the grace of a
movie star or the voice of a goddess. Bonnie put her trust in Tonya’s lies. The
lies, for Bonnie always revealed the pattern. It was the pattern that she put
her trust in. The lies were only the vehicle for revealing the pattern. Bonnie
says that the pattern is everywhere.
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