as an outcast on the fringes of society, ate rodents, ate people… everything.

The ghost of my parents’ oak door would torment me to come back home every night. Stepping through it would surely make everything all right again. Our mangy old dog would be there, warming her soft pink belly by the fire. The sweet smell of caramel-glazed apple pie (Mom’s specialty) would welcome me back. Sometimes the dreams were so vivid that I woke up still feeling Mom’s gentle touch on my shoulder. But eventually, those imaginary worlds, painted with the rich colors of love and acceptance, would be replaced by whatever filthy alley that had served as my shelter for the night. The heavenly aroma of apple pie would become the smell of stale urine wafting up from my newest dumpster blanket.

How many...

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