Short Stories
Killing yourself is hard. Killing yourself and getting away with it is much harder. I don’t just mean swallowing some pills and making it look like an accident, although I’m sure the degree of difficulty there is high too. I mean really offing yourself and living to tell the tale. Not that you’d tell anyone, I imagine being upright and breathing would be enough. More than enough in my case. In fact, that’s rule number 4.
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It was late and her support hose were killing her. She ran her fingers under the elastic and felt the deep grooves carved into her calves. It was reassuring to still feel something. She looked around the cavernous dining room. It was open at one end and she could see into the living room. Graying sheets were draped over most of the furniture. The piano was gone. The fireplace was bricked over. One brick missing from the top left corner. A dark space like a missing tooth. Brown boxes were stacked in the center of the room like a pyre waiting for a match. Cobwebs encroached high in the cornices.
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