She was crying again. I told her not to cry. She was ruining her face. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to fall apart. I told her to stop crying, but she cried even harder. I left the room and locked the door, thinking that she couldn’t get out.
We’ve been in this house for a week now. We were here for my grandmother’s funeral and the reading of her will. I was supposed to oversee the sale of her art, and her art went fast. What she had captured with her camera was pure poetry, and the pictures looked so life like. Then, she dropped the camera and broke it. The camera snapped at her in response.
I tried to fix the camera. I was good at fixing things, and all the mechanics were in their rightful place. She must have knocked something loose when it fell to the floor, but every time I snapped a picture, the same thing happened. I thought I had it fixed the last time, and I took a picture of the cat. The same thing happened, and the cat escaped outside before I could get to it. I realized the camera was beyond repair.
We were supposed to be going home soon. I had work in a few days, and so did she. What was I going to tell the kids? She should have gone home with them. She wasn’t supposed to stay behind. She didn’t even like my grandmother, and she would say awful things about her. I loved my grandmother, and she loved me, leaving me her art, the house and that camera. I didn’t want any of it. I just wanted to go home.
I had to be missing something, but what? I took apart the camera so many times. It was just an old polaroid camera. There was nothing different about it, but it changed the cat. It changed her.
I must have been so lost in thought that I barely heard the crash. It didn’t come from the bedroom but the kitchen. How the hell did she get out of the room, and what if she went outside? How do I explain her paper-thin appearance?
I walked into the kitchen. My knees buckled beneath me. There was no blood. Just pieces everywhere. The scissors were still warm. I dropped them on the floor before gathering her up. I never heard a scream, but I couldn’t find her mouth. Just her eyes, and she blinked. She didn’t have to say anything. I carried her into my grandmother’s office, and I stared down into those eyes. I placed what was left of her into the shredder. Before the razor blades could finish off what the scissors did not, her eyes blinked shut.