Max watched as the knife wove through the air. Clockwise, then counter, it leaped, spun, twisted. Faster, faster, the blade his dance, his future. His peace.
And finally, after all these years, his choice.
He could hear his stepmother crying downstairs.
Stupid cow. What was she crying about? She hadn't liked his father, or his uncle, any more than he had. Any more than she liked Max.
The knife came to his call, hovered before him, offered itself, blade sparkling in the early morning sunlight.
Screw it. Let her cry.
She'd have something real to cry about, pretty damned soon.