I wish my mother were here. Not that she’d do much good, but still I wish she were here.

You know sometimes I wonder if I want her here with me because, though I’m not much good, I feel, just a little, that she deserves this place more than me. I press the palms of my hands together and feel my bones just beneath my skin (more so now than ever) and think she should be here, not me.

Then the terror comes over me, and I just want her to hold me. Hold me, please mother, just once.

Just once.

When I was walking the streets of Chicago, I’d get as close to the lake as I could just to hear the lap of water. It was usually late, so the roar of the boats and the laughter of people did not interrupt me. In summer I might find late night lovers walking hand in hand. I thought them brave to walk and hold hands after dark in Chicago. I’d stay quiet and hide, not wanting them to think I was some thug or mugger.

See, yes, perhaps I’m not so bad. Perhaps somehow that will benefit me.

Also, if I die here, I’ll do it without a tattoo. My hair might be a blue one day and pink the next, but tattoos are too expensive and will look hideous after 50 years. I won’t live that long, I know.

It was the mist on the lake that attracted me. I’ve heard tourist wonder where all that water came from, they did not know Chicago sported a lake. What the hell people, do you think Chicago is in Kansas, (and not on the Missouri side, mind you)? Help me.

Yes, please help me.

Right, the mist on the lake. When I was younger, when my teachers tried, despite my mother, I would look out at this body of water and ache for it. Feel sorry for myself that I wasn’t on it, touching it, floating on it and freezing to numbness. It seemed so lonely, so forsaken, so beautiful, so cold, and I knew cold. We could only have our hats and gloves on while freezing on the playground, we couldn’t take them home and the bus ride home was so cold without them. The school would send home notes stating I needed a hat and some gloves, but the notes went unread and I grew older and more used to the freeze. So Lake Michigan drew me in during that frigid November day.

He was beautiful in the mist. He stood there, tall and lank and serene. How could I resist? At first I thought he wanted me for a night and though I never go to the Lake for that I shrugged and thought I would have him and revel in the thought I could find a secret place for secret self fulfilling desire. I guess I did. He keeps me here, in this bricked place, where I can’t see the lake. I hear it thunder in the wind, mostly I feel it within the walls of my prison. When I feel it, I feel the ache of cold and I know; I know he is here to feed upon the heat of my soul, and I’ll never see the lake in daylight again.