72. Her Kill

The seconds blend together and I’m there, beside my father, unable to breathe, to think a way out—

Father’s form begins to morph, crumple, as he shifts. I look up, and the physician is a few feet away, but even I know an arrow in the throat is as fatal as a severed head. Still, I wail and plead. Anything to get it out, anything to get the wound to heal—because it’s not. It’s turning black instead, and it’s spreading so fast, I’m scared to blink, or I’ll lose time again.

Father’s eyes, now back to being blue, shift to mine, and for the first time in so many years, I see clarity in them. He starts to talk but blood sputters from his lips, and I place my hands on either of his cheeks. “No, don’t…don’t try to speak.”

I feel wet, warm hands on mine, and I look down to see him grasping my fingers tightly. It is odd. It’s been so long, I no longer know what his warm touch feels like, and though it is foreign, I tighten my fingers around his hand, unwilling to let go.

In the moments when some