Love Letters Of The Angels Of Death - Plot & Excerpts
It happens through the phone, as it often does. This time, the caller is your Dad. And he’s mad – so mad he’s quiet and speaking almost a full octave below his usual pitch. “I can’t trust myself to deal with it like a civilized person,” he’s telling you. “I need you to take it from here.” “Dad thinks I’m civilized?” you ask me after you’ve hung up. And I almost laugh. Your powers of civility are not what have moved your father to call you. He’s not looking for decorum. He’s looking for justice. I can imagine him right now – still sitting on the edge of his bed with the phone in his hand, thinking about how he’d made a mistake when he failed to name you Wormwood. It makes me laugh because it’s funny – the way the family wants you to stand up at their funerals when they’re sad and say something to tilt the hurt until they can feel it just right, in a way they can manage.
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