The words stick in my mind like glue. It is all I can think about. "Go home and think of the dozen abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarean sections, too, and your children who hate your guts..." My children don't hate me do they? They can't, I've never done anything to them... Maybe that's it. I never have ever showed any love or affection toward them. A strange feeling bubbles inside of me as I look out the side window, the other cars flying by.
I open the door to my bland house, back to my boring family. That poem continues to stay in my mind. I don't like this; my brain hurts. Why am I thinking so much? "I'm not really happy am I?" I contemplate. I look into the parlor and I see the same thing I see every day. The screens playing the same old rubbish it always does. I wonder if books are the answer. They can't be, why else would the government be so against them? But on the other hand, Montag is a fireman and he showed a poem to us. His job is to burn books and he read us one.
This is not right. I pick up the phone and call Mrs. Phelps. "How are you doing Clara?" I ask her. "I am okay actually; I don't know what has gotten into me, I just cannot stop thinking about the poem." "I can't get over the fact that Montag, a fireman of all people, read to us. From a book!" I exclaim. "I am thinking about calling in an alarm or talking to Captain Beatty about the incident," Clara responds. "The thought has crossed my mind as well," I say. "I have to go my dear, the screen is playing a new feature," she says with a farewell. "Goodbye." I hang up the phone. Then I walk to the front door, open it, and exit my home. I get into the car and enter the Fire house into my navigation system. I can't help thinking to myself, "Is this the right thing to do..?"
