Her voice enveloped me like honey in a broken jar. She was calling for more whiskey. "My medicine!" she croaked, words bubbling through thickly sweet pus in her throat. She threw a shoe against the wall, sole thumping againt cracked marigold wallpaper.
I contemplated hitting her with the bottle. Or smothering her sallowed skin, slack mouthed face under a drool stained pillow. I knew she wouldn't wake. I'd press that stained freedom against her cracked and fading beauty, watch her heaving chest relax, and I knew I'd plant marigolds on her grave before I spit on it.
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