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You take a scythe, point its sharp end above your sternum, and let its curved blade snag your primary veins. It’s faster that way, yeah? A firmer thrash on the coffin’s final nail. Better than staring at your grandmother on a hospital bed, half her body paralyzed with the other half writhing in pain. You point at her knee joint and drawl the words ‘Does it hurt here?’ followed by ‘Please tell me where it hurts, Ma’ trying to keep the jolly lilt on your tone to prevent a possible cause of worry on her face and yet quickly recoil over the churning inside your stomach as you see her open her mouth, drawing the words with her tongue but only a series of grunts and incoherent burbles pass through. You bite the inside of your cheeks to stop the imminent surge of tears as she looks at you, the words always hanging at the tip of her tongue but never coming out.