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    Strength of the Jabberwock: The Shattered Looking Glass, #3
    Strength of the Jabberwock: The Shattered Looking Glass, #3
    Strength of the Jabberwock: The Shattered Looking Glass, #3
    Ebook82 pages1 hour

    Strength of the Jabberwock: The Shattered Looking Glass, #3

    By Hatter

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    About this ebook

    The Hatter has a distinct narrative style that is unconventional and fractured. The Strength of the Jabberwock is a twisted mother/daughter tale that explores the complexities of what makes a woman who she is and what makes her undone. Through the use of flashbacks, memories, and diary entries, the reader walks through the lives of these women. At first, Hatter’s novels are a bit like the first time you tried sushi with chopsticks: you’re not quite sure you’re doing it right, you can’t tell if you really like it, and you feel a bit foolish. But there is a guilty pleasure about it, as if you’re one of only a few who are treated to this honor.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCheshire Grin Publishing
    Release dateJun 30, 2014
    ISBN9780990455165
    Strength of the Jabberwock: The Shattered Looking Glass, #3

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      Book preview

      Strength of the Jabberwock - Hatter

      Strength of the Jabberwock

      by Hatter

      ©2014 by Angel Dunworth All Rights Reserved

      San Antonio,Texas

      ISBN

      www.cheshiregrinpublishing.com

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed of as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations,organizations,or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      For Venus with love

      And for Ruby, Barb and any other woman who has over come the odds!

      Chapter 1

      There's this dark edge in my soul... a razor made more of long standing, hateful suffering than it is of doubt.  Maybe most people have it, I dunno. It cuts me to the quick, but that is not nearly as painful as when I feel it cutting other people and I can't control it. That's what really hurts. I have the kind of pain in which you lie awake at night and wonder if maybe, just maybe Dr. Death had a really good idea.

      Sometimes that razor is just regret coiled up in longing and tied with a big, loopy bow of socially unacceptable behavior. Sometimes it a double-edged sword of doubt and dynamite set off with some trivial trigger of varied outside stimuli that means nothing to anyone but me. Sometimes it's just the monster that is me... verbally debasing and destroying any one who happens near, anything that disturbs the silent ripples of agony. It can be anything... a look... a word... a sound and again I, super hero of denial, faster than a sabotaged relationship,  able to leap into destructive behavior with a single frown... it's a burnt up bridge... it's a plane of non-existence, it's...  it's... Stupid Plan!Thing is, I can't tell. I can't just open my mouth and say I'm hurting and I don't know why so in turn I am hurting you.  Instead I tend, especially with my daughter, to lash most mercilessly. I scream that, It's just too bad there weren't legal abortions in the sixties, when the translation is actually, I feel like my mind is having birth-pangs and it frightens me. Perhaps I have a brain tumor, but I’d rather believe I've been abducted by aliens. That's a much less traumatic thought.

      I wonder is it because I resent her? I've never had room in my heart for anyone but her really. But do I unknowingly hate her? My thinking being that I wasted my life on child-rearing when I could have become a physicist, orthodontist, triathlon winner, artist, sculptor or something fancy like that? Do I? It's all so faint sometimes. Feelings rise and fall against me like the tide rushing away from what used to be my soul.

      Remembering is the worst. Memories flash, erase, resurface and instead of the confusion it rains down on my failing health I relay, You are so cruel to me. How could your father, God rest him, have created such an evil child? I destroy everything I love. Every day I watch it. I watch myself chipping away at all I hold sacred. I can't make it stop and I don't know why.

      My doctors do their tests, dissect my feelings, mind. Needles, pills, phobias... one's the same as the next. The doctors hate when my daughter fusses at them about my care, about new symptoms and old blood tests. They don't stop to think that my quality of life directly affects hers. They don't understand that as my suffering grows hers becomes intolerable. So much for science.

      So many pills in this medicine cabinet. I can never keep track of what I can and can't have or even when I should or shouldn't take them. If a doctor prescribed them then I suppose they won't hurt me. Now is it 10 milligrams or 10 pills?  I'm really not certain, feeling very iffy. I only have seven left and my head just hurts so terribly. I guess I'll just take them all. Who could it really hurt?***

      The Walrus Diary

      April 30, 20_

      My name's Wilma, Wilma the Walrus.  Coo-coo-ka-choo when I look in the mirror I see eminent death. I see heart attack waiting to happen. I see cholesterol higher than Mt. Fuji. I see spam folders abounding in my in-box for gastric-bypass surgery turning to fruition of starred status and absolute consideration. I see plastic surgery and liposuction ads waging a war with humble thyself, and winning. I see that unique snowflake, creation of God status waxing and waning into un-blubber conformity. I see South Beach diet trending it's low-carb, possible malnutrition way into my very soul. I see, Yes we can, fading into thyroid pills and multiple BGT tests as diabetes becomes a phantom looming in the near future. I see a person simply too embarrassed by the chaos over being over-weight to go to the gym and gain order.

      My mom notices when I take her to the mall in her wheelchair and people stare. I notice too. I notice that she cries because she can't help being disabled. She can't help the way she is. I cry when they stare at my giant, walrus ass because I can help it...

      At least that's what they think. When you're a child you're a victim when you're an adult you're a volunteer? Right? They actually believe that I decided one day that I wanted to be obese. I didn't. The real shit of it is, I can't just decide not to be.

      I see those memes and inspirational shows telling me that individualism and diversity is beautiful. Be who you are and be proud! Sadly the television usually sponsors these shows with a minus zero sized model in some commercial that proves that glamor is something applied daily with a make-up brush. So? What are they really telling me? Inner beauty and individuality won't show unless you're a size four?

      I talked to Sam today. He assures me he didn't divorce me because of my weight. He just traded me in for a cheaper, newer model, ran off with a skinny girl by accident I guess. He kept it festive for me too... left me on Christmas Eve. Well ho! Ho! And fucking HO!

      The kids didn't understand. I guess I didn't either. I wanted to get all fit and pretty then... you know just to show him. But everything I looked up or that was recommended by Bonnie or Louise (the only people who hate their lives enough to actually be seen with a blob like me) I'd already tried.

      Every time the doctors say thyroid... I just want to kill something. That's a cop-out. Funniest thing is, they say thyroid and proceed to bitch about my diet and exercise regime as if I don't bother with either. So which is it?

      I had

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