Damn you, Jackson!
My fury was real. And ridiculous.
Jackson had been dead for three years. Cella dead for not as long.
Why did I blame Jackson? Single him out, rage against him, batter at
him, at his memory, the image of him sequestred in my mind. Held
there.
Yes, I held it there, the image and the memory of Jackson. I couldn't
quite tear it out though I reviled it, stormed against it. Perhaps that was
why. Perhaps that was his purpose now, beyond a life he found so
intolerable. So inexplicable.
Did he ever try to figure it out? Did he ever even try to find a way out?
And if he did not was it because he would have had to have been
someone else to have done that?