As the leaves fell that autumn and the cold north wind ushered snow onto the northern plains, forcing its inhabitants to acknowledge the arrival of winter, Harry seemed to enjoy the weekends when he returned to Marysville more than he enjoyed the weekends when I visited him in Lawrence. He seemed to be drawn back into the dysfunction from which he came. He found comfort in the dysfunction, because it was what he knew, not unlike the children in the Flowers in the Attic series by V.C. Andrews. The brother and sister in the series had not been taught boundaries, nor had normal bonds between members of the opposite sex been modeled for them, and the cycle of dysfunction continued through generations of their family. They lived the life that had been modeled for them, as it was the only life they knew. The end result was a cycle of dysfunction that was determined to thrive, sustaining itself on the smallest morsel of flesh, and refusing to die. Harry was living the only life he knew. And I had become one of them.




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