Prose-like short essay that packs a wallop. Whitaker slaps the reader with the consequences of poor decision making. (Unlike 'Fish Beating: Criminal or Just Plain Dumb', 'To Do List' is a work of fiction)

The first time I was too stoned to pay attention to the details. Floating through the humiliation, vaguely indignant and self-righteous. It was all a misunderstanding. Daddy’ll get me out of here.

This time I am obedient. Cognizant yet absent. I have learned. No strings for daddy to pull. It is not humiliating because I have lost all dignity. It is fact and I no longer care.

Follow the commands, same as before. I wear the identical outfit as a year ago. It hangs on my frame. No struggling this time. When unbuttoned it drops to the floor. Meaty fingers run roughly through my hair. Tangled. Brittle. No more thick bouncing curls. Down my neck and pasty arms. I miss my tanning bed visits. Across my breasts. They do not rouse. Over my ribs - each one protruding - to bony hips where fast food and too many drinks once collected. Over my buttocks. Finding the ringworm. No longer embarrassing.

I am bent. I am spread. The snap of latex. I am dry but still probed. No promise of candles and wine and the pretense of caring.

It is over. I shower. The water is harsh and the soap antiseptic. My fingers take the same path as the meaty ones. I try to remember the previous topography. A year’s cycle of light and dark has taken it too far away.

Dry and dressed, I am escorted to my new room. The door slides on its track. I lie on the grungy mattress and cry dry tears and recall…

I only went along for the ride. For kicks. For the dope. I was bored. Accessory to murder was not on my to do list.

copyright 2001 C. P. Whitaker