Gypsy sees road kill and says a Hail Mary. Death depresses her for different reasons than most people.
It’s because she knows there’s no such thing. It’s because she knows you’d never believe her.
I know you’ll never believe me. Please disregard.
Gypsy heard voices far before she was able to pronounce the word schizophrenic. She once read a definition for the term as “mental fragmentation”.
That didn’t really sound too bad to her.
She finishes whispering another prayer. She’s done this in certain instances since the words were drilled into her at catechism school by a cracked lipped wench who petrified the children.
Gypsy still recites the verse during certain rituals. This would spread a smile across her mother’s lips.
Roadkill. Ambulances. Car wrecks. Cow pastures. These are some of the times she repeats this address.
Gypsy stares blankly ahead, driving with half of her focus on the past.
She’s at the orphanage. Sitting in the front row of the bus. Watching an angry sister twist the key and cry, “See? I can’t start the car!”
“What do you mean?”
“The steering wheel’s locked!”
“Because God’s punishing us!”
Gypsy looks in her rearview mirror at the corpse of the half flattened squirrel. Her abdominal muscles tighten and flex. With no focus on the road her vehicle remains steady and straight.
She silently apologizes to the squirrel. No one should have to go out like that.