The music the screen door played when she, my grandmother, went to go get it was like the music in a cheap horror film. But the terror she gave was real. She never picked a bad one. She could pick one clean it seemed in a matter of seconds.
My mind would race for a plan. A plan to escape or even hide. To disappear. To take back whatever I did or didn't do. Soon she would be on me. And the sting of my legs picked by the salt in my tears.
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