I always have this dream in which my mother is bathing my body, trying to scrub it clean with all her might. Suddenly, she huffs and puffs, as if stricken by a mysterious evil, making as if to claw at my face and gouge out my eyes that are so much like those of my father, that man who threw his fickle young mistress from the third floor of a run-down building before swallowing half a bottle of hydrochloric acid.
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Eva had loved Anthony. She loved Alex, too. But, as with everything else in her life, she was a capricious lover, selfish and pleasure-seeking.
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I remember when I was five I wasn't scared of drowning. What scared me was dad when he was angry, which was most of the time.
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