The carnage of my thoughts. The privacy I had been afforded. I had killed him many times there—imagined what it might feel like, how he might panic, how he might plead and beg with me. I haven’t thought of him much since it first happened—since the night when I first pulled his teeth, plucked his fingernails, and organized them accordingly; as if they were broken remnants, artifacts in the museum of our love: a gallery of yellowing antiquity.
