A pool of black blood gathered at the crook of her neck. Her face, lined with a diary of age, stared up at him with unseeing eyes. A tuft of her white hair clung to his fingers.
The car is a volcano of smoke. Matt hands me the spliff and turns onto the high street. Streetlights pass above us like fireflies. The tip is moist but I inhale deeply.
You take your average severed finger, place it inside a convenience salad box, wrapped up in a bed of shredded lettuce leaves for company. You send it on its way.