The blade snickers within the mirror, and as the plug is pulled a number only he knows is left peppering the scum line. My Mother would have had the sink clean by now, taps glinting.
I laugh at myself, like I laughed then. And in doing so I catch my throat and watch as a scarlet bead oozes from my Adam's apple. His blood and our identity, all of it finds my pointed finger.
Four of us stand there; brother, sister, brother, brother, watching the careful strokes with the razor while the lather is left to turn to suds. Sometimes his reflection looks back at me.
I'm not sure whether it is her return or him leaving that numbs me so?
Two of the children start crying because they want their parents to work things out. They stay at home with him.
I go to school that day, even though I know the teacher will not be there.