Obsessed. That's the word Grandfather snarled at me when he saw me sortin through my box, moving and cleanin and taking better care of my things than my dog or him. I don't have too many things. My things are presents, things I found. They're delicate, soft as butterfly wings or hard as glass. One rough move and they could tear, shatter. My fingers are so big that they squish ants when I try to see 'em, I too strong and hurt things. My dog got a bone on his leg, on the ankle part above his foot, that's so thin and delicate I could snap like a turkey wishbone. Some things I'm allowed to break, others I'm not. I've learnt this. I told her that the bird had hit the window, broke its neck. My fingers twitch towards Grandfather's neck when he sleeping, pull snap, twist break. Life is so fragile, innit it? I'm scared of myself. Scared that one day, when I'm setting out china plates, I'll crush them in my hand, feel the blood drip down my hand and drop them, throw them, hurt them.