When the police came, I could have said
something. I could have told them about the blood under the rug, or
the back room where my brother was still crying. I could have shown
them Mom's collection of bottles, or the bruises on my arm that were
the same shape as Dad's hand.
In the end, I didn't do anything. I
knew the police would have to leave sometime.
My heart kept beating for another sixty
years...but that was the day I died.
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