The double-story mansion on a tree-lined boulevard still holds our secret: I drove you, that sunny autumn afternoon, to its fortressed walls, then hid on the floorboard of the '67 Mustang floorboard to pretend you had come alone.
Don't talk, just drive, you said, returning, before your soft moans turned to shrieks, and you leaked bright red, bled for days. Your boyfriend Joe would not answer calls.
When we meet these days, forty years later, we fondly chat---the old days, college drama classes, dancing, beaches, family, friends--but never mention the scary white house, the pseudo doctor inside, who for five hundred dollars, butchered your body, your soul, and any future chance for children you would have loved.
Beth McKim is a freelance writer and actress living in Houston, Texas. Her eclectic poems, essays, and short stories appear in anthologies and diverse publications.
