I locked my dead sister in the closet with an imaginary key, and she believed me. It didn’t seem to matter that she had been dead since she was two hours old. She was still my sister, and I still thought of it as locking her in the closet even though it was not something I could literally do. Her parents as I imagined them were not the same as my parents. They called to my parents looking for her, and my parents did not answer, but when my parents asked me about this, I said, “She’s in the closet.”And when my parents looked towards my bedroom, I said, “No, in her closet.” My parents asked me what in the world she was doing there, and I shrugged.

I had done it because my dead sister was gluing ants to the dinner plates and discussing the decline in the finer qualities of knights and rescuers. She enjoyed very much the squirming motions the ants made while they were waiting to be discovered. She seemed disappointed that I was the first to discover this.

My parents waited.

Finally I said, “She likes it in there.”The next day my dead sister told me everything her parents, the imaginary ones, had asked her.

I said, “What did you answer?”

She shrugged.

I kept on locking my dead sister in  the closet until her imaginary parents started telling it to imaginary friends as astory and laughing too much.

Finally my dead sister told her imaginary parents, “I like it in there,” and they stopped telling the story.

They thought she meant, “I like it better in there.”

I wasn’t convinced she liked it better in there, but I stopped doing it.

There were still some forms of torture I was unfamiliar with.

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