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Marge

Marge drinks half a bottle of scotch a day. Cheap scotch. She feels safe in her goldfish bowl. She drinks her red hungry.

“Food spoils the wine. I’m a soft heart, I’m vulnerable and I don’t tolerate fools. Pisces buy love. Virgos can’t be bought.”

She hasn’t got the nerve to kill herself and she hasn’t got the guts to live. She was married for eighteen years to Mister Ghandi.

“Virgos are givers, remember that. In my protection of myself I’m discovering who I am. You can only find out who you are when you detach yourself from things.”

The whisky numbs her just enough to ignore the hatred that her children feel towards her and forget the anger that she still feels towards her mother.

“A useless woman who never had a clue how to raise us. All she knew was lace and bel canto. A polyglot. All those languages, but she never learned how to hug or say “I love you.””

Marge’s youngest daughter Marilize is studying victimology at AA. The other three are in various stages of non-recovery.

“I have a fear of being judged. There are very few true people out there. So what I must look for are frogs.”

She considers her life wasted. Useless. Her goldfishbowl is shrinking. She knows it. She knows everything.

“It’s very difficult to love somebody.”

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