Story a day: 9.17.16

I did not “rot” in that jail. No, I would not call what I did the day after he murdered my mother and carried out his celebration on the body of a child – my body – “rotting.”

I worked.

I spent fifty years there, the maximum pre-meditation period they allow. Also, the maximum I could afford, if I wanted to kill him before nature set him down into his grave more gently than he deserved. But I did not wait around in jail. I worked constantly, obsessively, desperately.

And today I got out. See you soon, uncle.

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