Since she was a girl, Janet sewed. She sewed her prom dress, and as her prom date became her fiance, she sewed her trousseau. Tom, her F12 pilot, came back from Afghanistan in a hand-sewing-needlecoffin, and Janet sewed. She sewed his shroud, and she sewed her own, to be put away for later. She sewed until Social Services sent a man to see if he could help her. He went on and on at her, but eventually fell silent. He couldn’t go on at anyone any more, now. Janet pulled him further up the table and closed his eyes. She sighed, and snapped off some thread with her teeth, holding up the needle to the light to see better.  She’d have to take those scissors out of his throat, though; she didn’t want blood on her linen.


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