You stare at your passed out mother, and feel bad about her situation: dad walked out, she's been struggling at work from what a friend says, and her eye was taken in an accident that you may have had some involvement in. Had you have not skipped school to see May, she probably wouldn't have ran out and ignored the bystanders shooting off a nail gun.
You shudder as you put your left hand to your left eye. Maybe you could repay what you did to her. Sneaking down to the couch she lie on, half of her body slowly falling off the couch on to the plastic bottle of beer spilled on to the thin carpet, you grab a pair of scissors and cut the eye patch off.
The sight of the empty eye socket makes you cringe in terror, but does not stop you from trying to make a new eye. You focus on the hole with your right hand and think of an eye.
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