Fragments from books that don’t exist: The Big Book of Resentment


On that glorious afternoon when we buried our mother, Caitlin and I would have drinks at the lounge and go over the details for the very last time. It would be appropriate to indulge in vodka martinis, though not nearly as many as father. If all went well, she and I would never encounter each other ever again, but would find ourselves living the lives of our deepest desires; she in her yurt in the heart of Siberia and me in the cabin near Milton. All we would need was luck on our side. The plan seemed solid enough. We had been working on it for so many years, since we were children in fact. She would lean over the side of the well, and we would then push. He would be drunken as always, and we would inform him of the deed he had done. Twenty years later and we still felt the same, still shared the dream. They owed us. We were due, and it was a debt they were bound to repay.


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