He puts a metal hanger from the closet into my hand. “I’m thinking of ending things,” he says. I straighten it out and bend it in half so both pointy ends stick in the same direction. “I’m sorry for everything,” I say. I’m sorry, I think. “You can do this. You can help me now.” He’s right. I have to. We have to help. That’s why we’re here. I bring my right hand around and jam it in as hard as I can. Twice, in and out. One more. In. Out. I slam the ends into my neck, upward, under my chin, with all my strength. And then I fall onto my side. More blood. Something—spit, blood—bubbles from my
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