Stuffed

My friend used to make fun of my nose, how it always twitched when I was mad. This little fact always bugged me because it meant I never got the chance to clip a bully's jaw, they would always back off just that little bit too soon.

I haven't resolved my twitch. I'm twenty-eight. Time's running out. I live in my parents' garage. I'm not "shrouded in mystery" enough for the girlfriends I've kept only a week.

Last box in the trunk. Mom's passed out, Dad's at work.

I leave nothing on the bare bedspread that covers the bare bed in the bare room but my childhood friend, the one who teased me about my nose and my rosy cheeks.

I shut the door on the black bead eyes sewn into the raggedy, tattered face that I've looked into so many times for guidance. My eyes find Jerald's right ear - the one I sunk my teeth into every time glasses shattered against walls. Every time the strong smell of whiskey seeped through my beaten door. I don't lock my stuffed lion away; that would be too cruel.

I jam the key in the door lock.