It's our epitaph, me and the bird. I feel the air go cold; inhale that whiskey smell and watch the shape glide closer as my breath turns to smoke. But the knife is a bright and hovering sliver, its point wavering like candlelight. I feel the whole yard tilt, heart kicking the chest, an anger so abrupt and fiery that I strike him, no concern about the knife. I've wrapped Big Boy in a pillowcase. Blood sprays my hands, my lips and eyelashes.
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