Weekly Short Stories: An Excerpt
She is holding a crescent shaped brass statue. She tells me her father gave it to her and that he would always laugh when she asked what it was for. Why does it have to be for anything but to look at? He would reply.
The pain is sharp as she strikes me across the temple. I feel the immediate need to vomit, but it won’t come. She is walking backward, slowly. Her eyes are far off. She is still clutching the crescent shaped brass statue. I stand up and stumble to the living room making my way to a brown pleather chair. The material is worn. It is nicked and buttons are missing. A small toy piano rests in the seat. I feel myself fall against it and a crude tune plays capped by muted thuds as the brass statue bangs against kitchen counters, the fridge, and wall.
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