
Snip. Snip.
The cutter in his hand grows wet, soft tissue brushing his fingers. Snip. Snip. Biological current severed. The house will be sold soon. His mother’s garden has to look decent.
She calls for him, weak as the wind.
*
“I want you to have something,” she says, eyebrows still dark under paling hair. Her voice is like autumn leaves crumbling from humidity.
He is acutely aware of bringing a loaded gun into his mother’s house, each bullet containing enough explosive potential to eradicate the face gently weathered across a lifetime.
“I put your father’s watch in the box.”
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