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Her slack face is white, mouth gaping from the gentle persistence of gravity. A glistening track of dried spit runs down her chin.
The vein is dark and angry, bruises rising like plague boils along the inner arc of her arm. The spike, canted at a forgotten angle, is the ugly spear of modern civility. This is how we kill ourselves. This is how we set our souls free.
9 81225 141520 6151819111514 251521.
On the table, obscured by the morning paper, is a greeting card. Half-finished, her note tapers off into nonsense. On the front is a viciously colored drawing of the tower—its crown shattered by lightning, its inhabitants falling from broken battlements and ruined windows.
"I cannot reveal this card to you," his teeth chatter from their porcelain bowl. "You must wait until you are older. Until you are ready."
Her eyes are staring in two directions. One, her right, looks up at the light fixture. The left has drifted in its socket, turning so that it stares toward the door.
Who are you waiting for? Who are you expecting?
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Fire, or the tumult of dust, licks at the base of the tower. It is coming down. It's all coming down.
Babble on . . .
She didn't love me.
He didn't either. That is why they both left you.
315135 2015 135, 191514. 315135 2015 135 141523.