At the end there were straws in her glove compartment, I'd split them open to taste the familiar bitter residue, near the end I ate all her Percodans, hungry to know how far they could take me. A bottle of red wine each night moved her along as she wrote, I feel too much, again and again. You asked how and I said, Suicide, and you asked how and I said, An overdose, and then she shot herself, and your eyes filled with wonder, so I added, In the chest, so you wouldn't think her face was gone, and it mattered, somehow, that you knew this. . . Every year I'm eight years old and the world is no longer safe. Our phone becomes unlisted, our mail is kept in a box at the post office, and my mother tells me always leave a light on so it seems someone is home. She finds a cop for her next boyfriend, his hair greasy, pushed back with his fingers. He lets me play with his service revolver while they kiss on the couch. Cars slowly fill the windows, and I aim, making the noise with my mouth, in case it's them, and when his back is hunched over her I aim between his shoulder blades, silently, in case it's him.