Killing

KillingAnne's Father's Hand felt warm and even strong, though he lay unconscious, dying. In this expensive pastel room of the nursing home, he was starving, he was dying of thirst, as surely as if he had been abandoned in a desert. His breath stank. The smell from the parched hole that had been his mouth was like nothing else bodily she had ever smelled--foul but in no way fertile, an acid ultimate of carnality. Yet the presence was still his; his gray face, in its unconscious struggle for breat...