The emotional price put an unbearable strain on her heart. It wore at her like a diet of sandpaper and shale. She tried her best to hide it, brush it off even. But I knew better. One day she'd get that handbag. It was something she just had to do.
I promised him everything; it wasn't enough. Fifty years of saving, collecting, consuming without practical purpose, wasted. There at the end of all things, as my tongue withered and eyes crisped, the devil wouldn't even sell me some water. Maybe that was my torment? Maybe he just wanted a laugh?