Everyone loves a good plot twist. The best twists may leave us dizzy while we recalibrate, but they are ultimately reassuring. The twist reinforces the rules of storytelling, and we take comfort because we misapply those rules, believing there are those plot/story gears in our own lives, gears that are tightened and greased and lovingly tended to. If only, right?

The Mary/Mercy twist as described above works. Mary still has her heart, and she fills it with your metaphorical blood, baby!

Not for nothing, it’s possible I’m not Mercy or Mary and I’m Kathleen Blanchet, the not-quite-dead person you served at the first Pallbearers Club meeting, and I latched on to you without context, without reason beyond convenience—mine, not yours—and chance, and as I drained your heart, I filled your head with Mercy Brown. Real life works *that* way, but not stories, not novels. Not the ones we want to read anyway. Novels are lies. Great, big, wonderful lies.

I’ve said this multiple times before, but I am dreading the upcoming pages, the final pages, even though, at this point in the editing/critiquing, I know how it ends for all but the shouting. You have some shouting left to do.

I want to get the following in writing though:

If/when you/we publish this, you/we should consider including my notes. I give my blessing. In fact, I insist. What you’ve written is very cool, Art, and I can’t say that strongly enough. You’re a good writer and you tried, tried like fuck, but you need me to fill in some of the holes you left.

Just look at that deliciously ironic previous sentence! The vampire who steals life/soul from you is offering to then *add* to your book. Huh? That shit is gold, Art. You know you want it included. Ah, the jagged ouroboros of life.

You don’t even have to include my name—fictitious or real—as a coauthor on the cover. I don’t mind, and not what I’m looking for. Honestly and as always, I’m here to help you.

Look, just like how we wrote your history paper on poor Mercy Brown, we’re collaborators. We always have been.

Hardly Getting Over It

HARDLY GETTING OVER IT

(2014–2017)

I know you were too despondent to leave a chapter title and summary, so I added it for you.

A chapter in which acceptance is the price of freedom. I know that’s not as good as something Art would’ve written. We should probably use what you wrote first, below.

The rest of this is an act of confession, contrition, self-flagellatory punishment, and just maybe a petty and glorious revenge. I am not and have never been above the latter. It might be all I’ve ever wanted.

* * *

At the writing of this, Mom has been dead for one year.