“Because I’m still afraid of the people who are walking by when the Good Samaritan is right in front of me. Okay, I get it!” He shakes his head. “Thanks for the Bible lesson.”
“You don’t get it at all. Jocelyn wasn’t the publican or the priest. Jocelyn was the band of robbers. Jocelyn was the one who wounded you. She didn’t walk on by after you were already wounded. She did the wounding for fuck’s sake. It’s bad enough looking at me and seeing one of the people who would just walk by. You look at me and see the robbers, for Christ’s sake.” I’m all worked up in a rage now, and I stand up and say, “That makes you a fucking idiot and you’re missing out on the oil and wine that could heal your fucking idiot wounds!” I slam closed the calculus book, put the tablets on top of it and then the calculator. “Fucking idiot!” I shout again. Then, I storm away from the table and rush up to my room, slamming the door behind me.
It takes a great deal of self-control not to turn right back around and rush down there again. A big part of that is that I’m still furious and even though that was a pretty damned good exit, I’m not done expressing my anger. The other part, which isn’t as big but is still substantial, is that I want to beg him to reconsider. The anger wins, of course, because anger is a lot more satisfying than desperation. I open the door and shout, “Fuck you, Thaddeus! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I half slam the door but stop and yell, “Fucking, fuckety-fuck fuck! Fuck!”
Then, I slam the door again.
It probably makes me a small person but the last little outburst makes me feel a little better.
For about five seconds.
Then, I throw myself onto the bed and bury my face in the pillow so he won’t hear me cry like a baby.