“I should have done this a long fucking time ago,” says the kid. “Bleeping,” I say, correcting her language. The kid stops for a second and stares at the urn in her arms and then I realize what she is about to do but I’m powerless to stop it. She looks at me to check that I’m watching then she winds up like a baseball pitcher and throws your urn against the wall, smashing it to pieces. “I’m sick of being raised by a fucking dead person,” screams the kid, gesturing wildly. “You’re a monster,” I say. “An absolute fucking monster.” “So maybe I am.” Your ashes fly everywhere, like a dust storm,
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