The Failure by Ross McMeekin
He was the kind of person who, while chopping onions at a friend’s party, proceeds to cut off his own finger...
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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.
He was the kind of person who, while chopping onions at a friend’s party, proceeds to cut off his own finger...
I want to see my true self, all my raw, unglazed edges, all my broken pieces a puzzle shattered on the floor.
Her thoughts are like squalls of wind and water: concerned co-workers, ex-husband, grownup kids worried she’s drinking too much but too busy to come check on her.
The edges of the road were chipping away, the black tar dripping down the mountain like honey.