Mor or Les
by Alexis Biedenfeld


	Somehow I can't believe that things will improve as he says they 
will.  I used to trust him; both of us did!  But that was until he tried 
to separate we who were only one.
	Dr. Blake tells Mortimer that it's better this way, that both 
Mortimer and Leslie need to find new friends.  But Mortimer has been my 
only friend for so long!  I was the only one who could bear the pain 
that his drunken birth-mother inflicted upon him.  Like an umbrella, I 
sheltered Mortimer from any storms created by mother's tumultuous soul 
that she could fling our way. He could not have survived without me.  
Likewise, I could not have existed without the warm fire of acceptance 
that warmed my frigid spirit.  We have needed each other and no one else 
for so long!
	Dr. Blake is a very tricky man. Mortimer believed him from the 
beginning even though I clutched tightly to my trust as though it were a 
helium balloon.  Dr. Blake unzipped Mortimer's shell with his fingers of 
nimble niceness.  I told Mortimer to do bad things, things for which 
Mortimer could have allowed Leslie to take the blame.  Then Dr. Blake 
would get mad, and Mortimer would see through Dr. Blake's transparent 
personality.  But Dr. Blake seemed strangely pleased with our behavior.  
He certainly knows how to trick Mortimer.  Dr. Blake wants Mortimer to 
forget Leslie so that Mortimer can be Dr. Blake's friend.  Dr. Blake can 
never steal Mortimer! I will not allow it; how can I? Now Dr. Blake is 
giving Mortimer the Death Medecine. He is going to kill me, but Mortimer 
does nothing.  He would let Dr. Blake abort me like an unborn fetus.  I 
have dreams and hopes just like Mortimer.  It is I who loves him.  By 
destroying me, he is killing part of himself.  It is only a matter of 
moments before I cease to exist.  I will be plucked from my vine at the 
height of my bloom by the very gardener that nourished me, watered me, 
warmed me.  The only one who has ever loved me has rejected me and given 
me up for another.  My life will be stolen, not by a simple thief, but 
by a clever con artist in the guise of a trusted companion.  My life is 
already over for the pain of rejection envelops my soul and yields it to 
the charms of death.  Mortimer had better bury me deep in his tender 
psyche, so deep that I can never be exhumed.