She had a dream about her baby.
He had grown into a boy.
He sang badly, but with a passion.
He wrote short stories, each ending with a small epiphany, not to describe his life but what he thought his life was lacking. He brushed at his face with hasty, abstracted nobility and knocked away not fingers but a large spider.
He turned to her.
I get it, he said.
A world is raging outside my windows.
We’re all done for.
No, she answered, cradling his head in her arm. (If she wasn’t careful, this could easily turn into a stranglehold.) Life is essentially endless. If we accept the scarcity of insight, we need to live on endlessly, my baby, do we not? (Oh, she was careful with that boy, she was.)
He handed her his latest piece.
Do you like my style?
Style does not matter, she said. Style is just avoiding your deficiencies. But for future reference, you might consider this: Parricidal stories are so parochial.