As a child, I always feared the picture my mother kept by her bedside. I never understood why she would frame an image of such a grotesque monster. It looked like a man deformed in ways I can barely fathom. Those bulging eyes, skin so pallid it was translucent, sunken cheeks and swollen lips.
“He didn’t always look that way.” She’d tell me, but I didn’t believe her. How could a man become something so haunting?
It's a question I never wanted answered, yet the answer becomes clearer every day.
I really am starting to resemble my dear old dad…
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