It's Been So Long That I Think

If I Held A Revolver To Your Head, James, And Pulled The Trigger, Would It Really Matter If I Did Not Know That There Were Not Bullets In The Chambers?

She Glanced Down And Saw That A Glove Of Blood Covered Her Lower Arm From The Elbow To The Wrist. The Arm Was Throbbing, Stiff, And Painful. "is This When You Start Tearing Strips Off Your T-shirt To Bind Up My Wound?" She Joked. She Hated The Sight Of Blood, Especially Her Own. "if You Wanted Me To Rip My Clothes Off, You Should Have Just Asked." He Dug Into His Pocket And Brought Out His Stele. "it Would Have Been A Lot Less Painful.

What's Wrong, Little Sis? You Look Upset." She Could Barely Catch Her Breath. "cracked...my...nail Polish Slapping Your... Worthless Face. See?" She Showed Him Her Finger - Just One Of Them. "cute" He Snorted.

The Kitchen Was Just As Empty, Even The Refrigerator Gone, The Chairs, The Table--the Kitchen Cabinets Stood Open, Their Bare Shelves Reminder Her Of A Nursery Rhyme. She Cleared Her Throat. "what Would Demons," She Said, "want With Our Microwave?

Don't Make It Sound Like That. Like Some Ordinary Sort Of Grief. It's Not Like That. They Say Time Heals All Wounds, But That Presumes The Source Of The Grief Is Finite. Over. This Is A Fresh Wound Every Day.