"No you idiot, AFTER school," she exclaimed forcefully.
"You're a fistula."
"What does that even mean?"
"It's a passage of scar tissue that goes through the body."
The nearby clock ticked impatiently.
"Stop changing the subject you idiot," she sputtered.
"Stop talking to me then."
"You know what this means don't you? It's bad. It's very very bad, and it was caused by you."
"It was your idea."
"Can't you just keep it safe for a few more hours?"
"That's the thing. . . I'm pretty sure it's dead already."
"You're dead."
"No, it's dead."
"If it's dead then you're dead."
"But I'm not dead."
"Then it's not dead."
"But it is dead."
"Then you're dead."
"Not yet."
"Idiot."
And then the owner burst out of the classroom.
"The bag!" he screamed, spittle flying forth.
"Okay."
"I know it was you."
"Okay."
"Give it to me."
"Okay."
"Jerry."
"Oh."
"How could you."
It was dead.
No comments:
Post a Comment