One hundred and fifty years after my stint as a witch, I was reborn the future wife of one of America’s most revered and enigmatic authors. Forget what you’ve read about standing by my man or claims that I was too frightened to leave. People will believe anything biographers want them to believe. Sure, he knocked me around a few times, and it’s true he once pushed me down the stairs, but the fact is, without me, the world wouldn’t have seen the genius locked inside him, churning until it surged, a force of nature unto itself, blinding in its wall of whiteness. Sometimes even I couldn’t look. The irony of the bread box didn’t escape me. I stored his memory there like a lie I told myself.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.
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