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.
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