Party of Three by Mathieu Cailler
Last night, I died. A driver plowed into my hatchback at 92 mph on the 110 South right outside of downtown Los Angeles.
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I no longer harangue every desk nurse at every hospital for a taxonomic breakdown of her bills. I don’t ask for the numbers of the Benadryl, the water cups, the abdominal touches done with gloved hands. I am the most American I’ve ever been—she costs what she costs and I eat it.
Last night, I died. A driver plowed into my hatchback at 92 mph on the 110 South right outside of downtown Los Angeles.
Let's say John tied her to a chair after she said she couldn't go to prom with him. Let's say the boy has a butcher's knife in his hand.
Looking deeper, advocating for something more, is to feel the wings wrapped around our necks.
The boys pull tiny bottles of Captain Morgan from their pockets, their fee for entry. They roll one to each of us, and we gag when we sip.
I will be ten tomorrow, and I feel cheated in too many ways to count.