Chop, a hunk of hair. The scissors flashed as I grabbed heavy handfuls and cut it down to the scalp.
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Chop, a hunk of hair. The scissors flashed as I grabbed heavy handfuls and cut it down to the scalp.
It’s a grey day. I’m lazing around on the couch playing an inane game on my phone.
My right thumb pressed the button again to release more morphine. Covered in tubes and needles, surrounded by sounds generating persistent resonant vibration in the head, I shifted between states of consciousness …
Before starting my morning ritual, I wipe down the counters. Greasy streaks snake across the countertops, evidence of my husband’s effort to clean up the kitchen the night before.
We talked about my week at school or a movie we planned to see. Suddenly my mom would say “There’s your husband!”
Gingerly, I hang that old-fashioned orb of sparkle on a pine branch. Glass ornaments can shatter so easily.