"Oh, I know I shouldn't have told you. I shouldn't have told you. It's just, you're the person that I'm closest to in this world."
This is how she remembers it. There is a lake in the center of a world of concrete. At the end of your life, when you look straight down the barrel, you'll pull up from the bottom of the lake the thing that is you. If you have time, you will take the time to dredge.
"My mom was already checked out of her body. My dad was insane, he was so violent... I knew that if I told my dad, he would kill my brother, so I never told. One day... I heard the front door open and it was my dad. And I was so scared that I jumped up, so fast. And the hot iron fell off the ironing board and it hit my leg."
"It was a long time ago. It's just that I want to... I wanted someone to know this about me."
There is a lake in the center of a world of concrete. At the bottom lies the truth about you. At the bottom is why and how you should be loved. What means you should be saved.
It will never, ever be this. It's not what makes you special and it's not what made you strong. Maybe it's your art. Maybe it's your voice. Maybe it's your truth, or your story, or your ability to love. Probably it is your strength. But whatever it is, it's much more important -- and more interesting -- than this.
("You can go home, Norma," he will say.)
There's a lake, in the center of a whole world of concrete. At the bottom is something pure, untouched. Nobody could ever take that away from you.
You were never anything but clean.
Norma: "Emma, you look beautiful. Norman, you look so handsome. Already ruined. Don't think about doing anything stupid."
Emma will be long gone; will have begged him to find another ride. Miss Watson will appear, like a brother on a motorbike, and take him somewhere warm.
You put up with so much, he'll think. Her words, his head.
Norman will lie in his blood and the rain and hate himself. Dreadfully. For things he can't explain or understand. Things that aren't his fault, but make the water seem so dirty.
Richard Slymore will beat the shit out of him. He won't know the story. He'll just see he's cleaner still; that Bradley is his. Belongs to him, like a house on a hill.
She'll only dance with him so long before she'll see him, staring at Bradley. The story will reverse, again. He'll break her heart, again. Like this one dress smelling of his mother could ever do it. We've all been there.