it was a warm spring day when you locked the door on the tower. when you closed down the windows. you put your finger up and up as if you were trying to unlatch something but instead it closed everything.
and i thought to myself, i am not that person, scratching and raging against that lock like a hoyden. i was outside the window like peter pan, watching the action; i watched that sick little simulacrum in the room enact her beastly tiny passions.
because you punished, she was punishable. so she must be guilty.
something about her must be guilty.
something about her
must
be guilty.