Her left thumb rubs at her right wrist while she speaks, like she’s seeking comfort from the words she brought back with her out of her pain. Tiny black print across the veins that trace under her honey-colored skin. Fuck nobility. Her scar from the Anarchy in the Park cut starts several centimeters further down.
“I guess you know Marie died from cancer. That shit’s a lot more painful and messy than it looks in made-for-TV movies, I’ll fuckin’ tell you that. So, anyway, when it wasn’t completely hopeless yet, when there was still a chance she’d live, our local paper wanted to do a story on her. ‘Brave little give fights her brave fight bravely,’ you know, that kinda feel-good bullshit.”
“We wouldn’t do it. We locked ourselves in her room, just her and me, until everyone went the hell away.”
“Because fuck bravery. Why the fuck did they need her to be brave? She was six fucking years old, and she was in horrible pain, and she was gonna maybe fucking die, and here are some bullshit fucking journalists—no offence—demanding she be some fucking poster child for a sweet and noble bravery. Fuck that. Fuck sweetness. Fuck nobility.