Mr. Uffizi grew silent when he saw his wife listening. He was defeated, left with no choice but to listen, too. After all, he had never completely read Rose's words. The sharp letters, painful scars on the tree, could only be read by circling and circling.
He would never forget that morning, the marvel of it, how for a few moments nothing made any sense, until he realized it was Rose, that somehow she had done this in one night, that antisocial monster of a child.
There was no need to read every word. How close do you have to look at a disaster to recognize it? How many bodies do you have to dissect in order to understand the tragedy? No, he saw "Buck" and "Uncle" and "penis" and "God" and he knew what had to be done. The chainsaw. The telephone.
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