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�Do you have a razor?� The ghostly voice ripped the woman out of her thoughts, and she turned, heart racing, to see her son basking in the shadow of the doorway. Light glinted off his eyes and cheekbones, but there were deep shadows under his eyes and on the planes of his face. His mottled white arms glowed in the darkness from where they hung limply at his sides, as if he�d forgotten they were there. She looked him up and down, unable to find words. This was the first time he�d raised himself or spoken in two days. �W-what for?� she asked breathlessly, her eyes on the scarred flesh of his limbs. �They wouldn�t let me have one,� he said, referring to the doctors at the institution. He touched his bristly chin. �And I feel gross.� His mother smiled, breathless with relief. �Oh, yes, I-I still have your old electric one. It�s upstairs in the cabinet.� He nodded solemnly and, scratching at his chin, trudged upstairs. His mother watched after him, heart still pounding in her ears. She listened to the mechanical buzz of the razor from upstairs and the soft splash of the water in the sink as he turned on the faucet, each sound whispering in the melancholy silence that she�d endured these past few years. He turned the shower on, and water thundered through the pipes over her head. It was eerie to hear someone else�s noise in the house after living alone for so long. She had to keep reminding herself that her son was back home�her son, or whatever type of phantom the boy upstairs shaving right now was. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, and she went to the bottom of the step to meet him. He descended into the light of the hallway, trudging and thumping over every step, and stopped in front of her, eyes downcast, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. He�d changed clothes, and now wore a long-sleeved grey shirt that seemed to swallow up his bony arms and flat chest, and blue jeans that would have fallen off his shrunken hips if not for the support of his thumbs. His narrow chin was clean-shaven now, and the long hair was wet and slicked back behind his ears. His mother smiled, feeling her eyes prick with tears. �That�s better,� she said. Gingerly, she reached out with her small fingers to touch his now-smooth cheek, and only seconds before contact did she recall his adversity to her touch. Apprehensive, she froze the fingers in mid-air and curled them inwards into a fist. He looked at her fist and at her anxiety-creased face. He stepped down off the stairs and flung his thin arms around her neck. Cries escaped the both of them, and, arms tightly wound around each other, they stood at the bottom of the stairs, crying and sighing and gently rocking in place while the world pieced itself back together. |