An Inner City Short Story
My carefully smooth, rounded letters knit into words as I write. I, Suzanne Collins, leave all my worldly possessions to my son, David.
He’s a man now, but I remember him sobbing, chubby arms gripping my left leg. I remember depositing him in his crib, closing the door so he wouldn’t hear.
All my worldly possessions. Sagging sofa. Scarred table. Rocking chair. Mother’s china. Only one cup left…
Warning: Val’s stories and novels contain violence and sexually explicit scenes which may be disturbing to some readers.